THE 

TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

THE  ELEMENTS  OF  THE  ART,  THEIR  EVOLUTION 
AND   PRESENT    USE 


BY 
CHARLES    F.   HORNE,   PH.D, 

ASSISTANT  PROFESSOR  OF  ENGLISH  IN  THE 
COLLEGE  OF  THE  CITY  OF  NEW  YORK 


•'•   -   •    •  ••••••  ;••  ;•  1 1  .*. 

.•  •    •  •• .  »j ••"•.•••-• 

•..-•,:..::   •.-.•.••••••• 


NEW    YORK    AND    LONDON 

HARPER   6-   BROTHERS   PUBLISHERS 

1908 


X^iB^l?^ 

/  OF  THE     ^  A 

f    UNIVERSITY  ) 


GENERAL 


Copyright,  1908,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 
All  rights  reserved. 
Published,  May,  1908. 


This  book  Is  inscribed   In  lively  gratitude  to  the  three  scholars 
to  whose  influence  it  is  largely  due, 

to 

OTilliam  Bean  ftotocll* 

the  friend,  whose  thoughtful  converse  first  turned  the  writer's  critical 
attention  to  the  theme,  when  both  were  younger, 


professor  jf  rands  Jlobep 

of  New  York  University,  the  teacher,  under  whose  capable  guidance 

the  writer  had  once  the  good  fortune  to  pursue  some  portions 

of   the   general    subject    in    post-graduate   research, 

and  to 

$rofe**or  Hetota  $  reeman  iWott 

of  the  College  of  the  City  of  New  York,  the  colleague,  whose  kindly 

urgency  is  in  some  measure  responsible  for  the  fact 

that  the  product  of  years  of  interested 

study  is  here    presented 

to  the  public. 


168937 


INTRODUCTION 

The  aim  of  this  book  is  to  make  clear  the  principles 
that  underlie  the  most  popular  form  of  literature,  the 
novel.  With  this  end  in  view  these  pages  trace  his- 
torically and  by  the  aid  of  constant  illustration  the  de- 
velopment of  the  art  of  novel  writing.  Considering  the 
present  frequently  lamented  "tyranny  of  the  novel,"  it 
is  surprising  that  the  technique  of  this  influential  form 
of  art  has  not  been  more  closely  studied.  Its  principles 
are  often  loosely  discussed,  and  histories  of  the  novel  or 
critiques  on  the  work  of  individuals  are  abundant;  but 
nowhere  has  the  complete  body  of  accepted  law  been 
gathered  and  formulated  for  common  use. 

The  necessity  for  some  such  undertaking  is  obvious  if 
the  critical  study  of  fiction  is  to  advance  scientifically. 
Hence  I  have  endeavored  here  to  analyze  the  novel,  to 
separate  its  parts,  and  then,  going  back  to  the  earliest  fic- 
tion, to  see  how  each  one  of  these  essential  elements  has 
been  employed  and  understood  through  all  the  ages.  Thus 
the  book,  without  being  history,  has  something  of  history's 
cultural  value  in  its  chronological  advance. 

One  important  field  which  I  have  kept  in  view  is  that 
of  collegiate  study.  Within  the  last  twenty  years  most 
of  our  colleges  and  universities  have  begun  to  give  the 
novel  serious  consideration.  The  teaching  of  literature 
no  longer  means  solely  the  discussing  of  poetry  and  of  the 
essay.  The  novel  is  acknowledged  as  a  potent  literary 
form.  Yet  we  have  no  completed  text-book  with  which 
to  approach  it.  Histories,  whether  of  the  novelists  or 
their  works,  can  not  meet  the  demand ;  it  is  not  through 


INTRODUCTION 

histories  that  we  study  other  branches  of  literature.  For 
the  analysis  of  the  novel,  the  discussion  of  its  elements, 
and  the  tracing  of  their  historical  development,  I  venture 
to  offer  this  book,  the  outlines  of  which  have  been  tested 
in  practical  classroom  work. 

So  far  as  the  general  reader  is  concerned,  it  may  be 
assumed  that  he  must  often  desire  to  establish  his  opinions 
of  his  favorite  novelists  on  some  firmer  basis  than  that 
of  mere  instinctive  admiration,  the  changing  whims  of 
personal  enjoyment.  The  need  and  value  of  a  known 
foundation,  not  only  for  the  judgment  but  even  more  for 
the  execution  of  literary  work,  comes  specially  home  to 
one  who  has  faced  the  subject  from  many  sides,  has  toiled 
as  an  editor,  encouraged  as  a  teacher,  and  groaned  as  a 
professional  "reader"  of  manuscripts. 

The  vast  mass  of  beginners  in  the  art  of  novel  writing 
are  not  as  a  class  characterized  by  any  marked  apprecia- 
tion of  the  value  of  the  form  which  they  essay,  or  even 
any  practical  understanding  of  the  technical  difficulties  of 
their  work.  They  are  poets  pouring  out  their  souls  in 
blind  confusion,  or  copyists  laboriously  imitating  the  im- 
perfections of  their  favorite  author.  To  my  brethren  of 
the  critic  world  this  book  is  therefore  offered  in  confidence 
that  its  need  at  least  will  be  recognized,  though  its  con- 
clusions may  be  open  to  dispute.  It  is  intended  both  to 
guide  the  experiments  of  the  beginner  and  to  arouse  the 
criticism  of  the  expert.  Every  discussion  of  the  subject, 
even  though  acrimonious,  must  tend  toward  what  is  after 
all  the  main  object  of  the  book,  the  recognition  and  estab- 
lishment of  the  true  principles  of  the  novel's  art. 

NEW  YORK,  April,  1908. 


vi 


CONTENTS 

PARTI 
THE  ORIGIN  OF  THE  NOVEL 

CHAPTER  I 
THE  BEGINNINGS  OF  STORY  BUILDING 

The  Aim  of  the  Book.  Our  Unconscious  Following  of  Law. 
Confusion  of  the  Novel  with  the  Drama.  Confusion  with 
the  Epic.  The  Need  of  Historical  Examination.  The 
Origin  of  Fiction 3 

CHAPTER  II 
THE  ELEMENTS  OF  THE  NOVEL  * 

Differing  Views  as  to  the  Novel's  Essentials.    Early  Attempts  v 
at  Defining  the  Novel.    Recent  Definitions.    The  Essential 
Qualities  Selected.     Relative  Value   of  these  Elements. 
A  Working  Definition.    The  Novel  as  a  Set  of  Steps. ...     12 

CHAPTER  III 
THE  EGYPTIAN  TALES 

The  Fragmentary  Manuscripts.  The  Oldest  Story.  Tech- 
nique at  its  Beginning.  The  Progress  of  Artistic  Skill. 
The  Most  Advanced  Tale.  The  Most  Famous  Tale. 
The  Final  Development  of  Story  Building  in  Egypt 29 

CHAPTER  IV 

THE  GREEK  ROMANCES 

Earliest  Traces  of  Greek  Fiction.  The  Oldest  Romance. 
Technique  in  the  First  Romance.  The  Most  Famous  of 
the  Greek  Romances.  Development  and  Decay  of  the 
Later  Work.  The  Final  Attainments  of  Ancient  Story 

Building    -  •  •  •     40 

vii 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  V 

THE  MEDIAEVAL  CONGLOMERATES 

A  Review  of  the  Early  Development  of  Fiction.  The  Origin 
of  Modern  Fiction.  Beowulf.  Technique  in  Beowulf. 
The  Nibelungenlied.  The  Mediaeval  Romances.  Amadis 
of  Gaul.  The  Separation  of  Novel  and  Romance.  Short 
Prose  Tales  of  the  Middle  Ages.  Approach  of  the  Short 
Tales  toward  the  Novel 60 

CHAPTER  VI 
THE  MODERN  NOVEL 

The  Period  of  Transition.  Picaresque  Fiction.  Technique  in 
Picaresque  Fiction.  Don  Quixote.  The  Later  Romances. 
The  Princess  of  Cleves.  The  Modern  Development  of 
Human  Thought.  The  English  Approach  to  the  Modern 
Novel.  Pamela.  A  Review 83 


PART  II 
THE  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  MODERN  NOVEL 

CHAPTER  I 
THE  RECENT  STUDY  OF  STORY  BUILDING 

,  Aim  of  the  Ensuing  Chapters.  Method  of  the  Examen.  An 
Outline  History  of  the  Novel.  The  Diverging  Schools. 
The  Land  that  lies  beyond  Technique 105 

CHAPTER  II 
PLOT 

The  Importance  of  Plot.  Unconscious  Value  of  Plot  in 
Richardson.  Fielding's  Use  of  the  Comedy  Drama  Plot. 
The  Employment  of  Episode.  Eighteenth  Century  Ten- 
dencies toward  Internal  Plot.  External  Plot  in  the  Later 

I/  Eighteenth  Century  Novels.  Simplicity  of  Plot  in  Jane 
Austen.  Influence  of  Scott.  Development  of  Plot  in 
France  under  Balzac.  The  English  Increase  in  Com- 
plexity. The  Reaction  toward  Unity.  Present  Usage 114 

viii 


CONTENTS 
CHAPTER  III 

MOTIVE  AND  VERISIMILITUDE 

The  Beginnings  of  Verisimilitude.  Views  of  the  Critics. 
Motive  and  Method  of  the  First  Novelists.  Development 
of  Verisimilitude  in  the  Early  Realists.  The  Four  Differ-  S 
ent  Attitudes  toward  Truth.  Verisimilitude  z/tfrms  Ter- 
ror. Verisimilitude  z/^rj«j  Purpose.  Verisimilitude  in 
the  Historic  Novel.  Practical  Difficulties  in  Attaining 
Verisimilitude 147 

CHAPTER  IV  x> 

CHARACTER  ]/ 

Early  Drift  of  Character  Study.     Don  Quixote.     Fielding's       f  \ 

Pictures  of  Types.    The  Three  Aims  in  Presenting  Char-  /       \ 

acter.    Dangers  of  Realism.    Dangers  of  Idealism.    The          r 
Escape  from  these  Extremes.     Character  Revelation  in 
the   Autobiographic   Novel.     The  Art   of  Jane   Austen.  ^r' 
Advance  in  Character  Development.    Last  Efforts  of  the 
Idealists.      The    Realistic    Period.      The    Psychological 
NoveJ.     Present  Day  Conclusions 167 

CHAPTER  V 
EMOTION 

Importance  of  Emotion.  The  French  Study  of  Passion. 
Richardson's  Creation  of  the  Emotional  Cult.  Dismissal 
of  Emotion  by  the  English  Realists.  European  Exaggera- 
tion of  Emotion.  The  Reaction.  The  Union  of  Emotion 
and  Verisimilitude.  The  Power  of  Passion 189 

CHAPTER  VI 
BACKGROUND 

Varying  Use  of  Background.  Lack  of  True  Background  in 
Early  Fiction.  Growth  of  Background  before  Fielding. 
Poetry  and  Science  in  Background.  Background  in  the  ,/ 

"Pictures  of  Life"  Novel.  Sympathetic  Background. 
The  Novel  of  Manners.  Political  and  Theological  Novels. 
The  Novel  of  Locality.  The  Historic  Novel.  The  btudy 

of  the  Masters 

ix 


CONTENTS 
CHAPTER  VII 

STYLE 

Importance  of  Style.  The  Two  Problems  Involved.  The 
French  Mastery  of  Wording.  Crudity  of  Early  English 
Efforts.  English  Artists  of  Speech.  The  Problems  of 
Method.  The  Value  of  the  Letter  Form.  The  Dramatic 
Method.  The  Personally  Conducted  Novel.  Recent 
Analytic  Studies.  The  Value  of  Dialogue.  The  Character 
Author.  General  Conclusions  as  to  Method 236 

CHAPTER  VIII 
CONCLUSION 

I.  The  Novel  of  Incident.  II.  The  Novel  of  Artifice. 
III.  The  Novel  of  Ordinary  Life.  IV.  The  Novel  of 
the  Inevitable 264 

APPENDIX    275 

INDEX  .  281 


PART  I 
THE  ORIGIN  OF  THE  NOVEL 


CHAPTER  I 
THE  BEGINNINGS  OF  STORY  BUILDING 

The  Aim  To  speak  of  the  Technique  of  the  Novel 

of  the  suggests  almost  a  contradiction  of  terms. 

The  shapes  which  fiction  may  assume 
are  so  many  and  so  interchangeable,  that  its  art 
must'  often  appear  to  have  no  permanent  structural 
principles.  Yet  while  no  one  may  ever  hope,  or  presum- 
ably desire,  to  announce  an  inevitable  mathematical 
formula  for  the  production  of  novels  by  wholesale,  either 
good  or  bad ;  still  there  are  certain  general  laws  to  which 
the  novel  is  amenable.  Almost  any  recent  discussion  of 
either  a  novelist  or  his  work  will  refer  casually  to  some 
among  these  laws  as  being  universally  accepted,  though 
neither  the  cause  nor  the  authority  for  their  establish- 
ment is  explained.  Usually,  indeed,  the  law  seems  de- 
duced for  the  occasion.  The  wide-read  critic,  glancing 
round,  sees  that  a  certain  practice  has  long  been  custom- 
ary, he  sees  a  reason  for  this,  and  he  states  a  law.  No- 
where do  we  find  any  book  in  which  this  underlying  tech- 
nique is  laid  down  for  us,  complete. 

It  is  to  supply  this  gap  in  the  contemporary  study  of 
fiction  that  the  present  work  is  offered.  It  attempts  first 
to  establish  what  the  essential  elements  of  the  novel  are, 
then  to  trace  their  employment  and  development  through 
early  fiction  until  by  their  union  in  a  single  work  they 
formed  the  modern  novel,  and  after  that  to  follow  each 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

of  them  historically  through  their  more  recent  usage,  so 
as  to  understand  their  variations  and  value  in  the  present 
day.  The  book  may  at  least  obviate  the  necessity  which 
hitherto  has  been  forced  upon  so  many  of  us,  of  digging 
for  ourselves  over  this  same  old  ground,  where  each 
searcher  patiently  unearths  the  old,  old  facts,  and  each  in 
his  turn  is  tempted  to  celebrate  the  reappearance  of  the 
familiar  fossils  as  his  own  great  new  discovery. 

There  is  a  popular  idea  that  anybody,  no  matter  how 
unlettered,  can  write  a  novel,  the  only  prerequisite  be- 
yond paper  and  pencil  being  some  very 
Our  Unconscious  sijght  skill  in  penmanship.    Yet  the  most 

Following  of  SUperficial  reflection  will  convince  us 
Law 

that  these  possessions,  essential  though 

they  be,  are  not  wholly  adequate.  Imagine  them  as  be- 
longing to  a  savage  unacquainted  with  all  literature ;  and 
bid  him  write.  Even,  conceding  a  point,  give  the  be- 
wildered aborigine  a  theme;  ask  him  for  an  account  of 
some  particular  experience  of  his  own.  What  will  you 
get  beyond  a  few  rambling,  disconnected  recollections? 
Could  the  savage  by  any  remotest  chance  produce  a 
novel  ? 

We  are  all  of  us  unconsciously  attending  a  literary 
school.  The  tales  of  to-day  are  written  by  readers  of  the 
earlier  tales.  Each  reader  has,  more  or  less  deliberately, 
become  conscious  of  the  outlines  which  gave  him  pleasure. 
He  has  thus  imbibed  some  of  the  underlying  principles  of 
the  art  of  story  building. 

Unfortunately  these  principles  are  vague,  and  smoth- 
ered from  hasty  view  in  the  mass  of  words.  Hence  their 
existence  is  overlooked ;  and  hence  follows  failure.  It  is 


THE  BEGINNINGS  OF  STORY  BUILDING 

an  understatement  to  say  that  of  the  hundreds  of  MS. 
novels  submitted  by  hopeful  amateurs  to  our  great  pub- 
lishing houses,  more  than  one  half  are  rejected  immedi- 
ately and  perforce  by  the  professional  "reader"  as  im- 
possible, because  they  ignore  these  basic  principles  of  the 
novel-writing  art.  The  admitted  vagueness  of  this  tech- 
nique gives  only  the  more  reason  why  the  aspiring  young 
author,  as  also  the  less  ambitious  reader,  should  be  en- 
abled to  familiarize  himself  readily  with  what  does  exist. 
The  difficulty  has  in  no  way  been  removed  by  the  rough 
and  ready  attempt  of  some  writers  to  substitute  the  laws 
of  one  art  for  those  of  another.  The 
Confusion  of  the  novei  an(j  the  drama  are  somewhat 

Cl°sely  allied'    So  als°  are  the  n°vel  and 
the  epic  poem.     But  they  are  not  the 

same.  When  over  a  score  of  years  ago  Freytag  offered 
to  the  world  his  most  interesting  study  of  the  technique  of 
the  drama,  he  was  able  to  reduce  that  narrow  form  to  a 
pencilled  diagram,  a  sort  of  capital  A.  Recent  successful 
dramas  have,  however,  deviated  widely  from  the  details  of 
his  scheme ;  and  perhaps  the  underlying  truth  which  justi- 
fied its  general  application  was  no  more  than  Aristotle  had 
pointed  out,  the  world-old  law  of  life  that  every  action 
has  ^antecedents  which  lead  up  to  it,  and  consequents 
which^owaway.  Or,  to  phrase  the  idea  in  yet  broader 
f ormTeach  moment  has  behind  it  the  infinite  past  and  be- 
yond it  the  infinite  future.  In  this  sense,  of  two  infinite 
lines  meeting  at  one  sharp  point,  Freytag's  diagram  might 
apply  to  every  act  and  every  story  since  the  world  be- 
gan, and  only  in  this  broad  view  can  it  be  imposed  upon 
the  novel.  There  have  been  notable  tales  which  can  be 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

so  analyzed  and  interpreted  that  every  detail  of  the  A 
applies  as  though  they  had  been  diagrammed  from  it; 
and  there  have  been  yet  greater  tales  which  ignored  it 
wholly. 

So  too  with  tfo^  .fiCJT     Some  of  our  earlier  writers,  as 
Fielding,  and  some  of  our  critics  also,  have  sought  to  fit 
the  novel  to  the  epic's  frame.    The  re- 
Confusion  suit  jn  Fielding's  case  was  intentionally 

EMc  a  *arc*cal  eP*c>  but  it  was  also  a  farcical 

novel.  The  author  deliberately  sets  his 
hero  wandering  through  a  world  of  nonsense,  and  at  the 
end  dismisses  the  impossible  puppet  with  an  unearned 
rank  and  fortune  hurled  at  him  suddenly  in  burlesque. 
This  lack  of  sequence  is  typical  of  the  epic,  which  presents 
a  national  hero  or  a  theme  of  national  interest,  where  the 
climax  and  close  are  already  familiar,  and  where  the 
reader's  patriotism  leads  him  to  look  eagerly  at  each 
isolated  fact.  The  novel,  on  the  other  hand,  presents  un- 
known figures  travelling  an  unknown  road,  and  for  each 
of  these  it  must  arouse  some  individual  interest.  In 
short,  while  a  novel  may  conceivably  conform  itself  to  the 
epic's  laws,  just  as  it  may  to  the  drama's,  it  can  only  do 
so  in  a  secondary  way  and  after  first  conforming  to  its 
own  very  different  technique. 

How  then  shall  the  investigator  discover  these  hidden 

yet  insistent  laws;  or,  finding  them,  how  shall  we  all 

reach  any  degree  of  accord  as  to  their 

Need  of  value  ?    The  only  convincing,  as  the  only 

trulv  scientific,  way  seems  to  be  by  trac- 
.bxamination  .  "„  ,  -  .  .  "L 

mg  fiction  from  its  beginnings.     In  the 

present  work,  therefore,  I  seek  to  view  the  technique  of 

6 


THE  BEGINNINGS  OF  STORY  BUILDING 

the  novel  not  only  as  it  stands  established  in  this  twenti- 
eth century,  but  as  its  principles  appeared  in  earlier  times, 
as  they  were  first  conceived  and  misconceived  in  the  dim 
dawning  of  the  art.  I  seek  in  these  opening  chapters  to 
rediscover  the  early  and  half  obliterated  steps  by  which 
the  formless  fiction  of  a  remote  antiquity  acquired,  one 
by  one,  certain  general  ideas  of  art,  developed  for  itself 
a  fairly  definite  structure,  and  thus  rose  out  of  chaos  to 
become  the  modern  novel. 

The  search  for  these  beginnings  involves  the  examina- 
tion of  a  wide  field.  The  name  "novel,"  writers  incline 
to-day  to  confine  to  one  especial  form  of  tale.  But  just 
what  that  form  is,  just  what  qualities  are  to  be  demanded 
and  what  bounds  prescribed,  is  by  no  means  sharply  de- 
fined. Moreover,  though  the  limits  were  as  exactly 
agreed  upon  as  those  of  a  sonnet  or  a  canzonet,  the  dis- 
tinction would  still  be  only  an  arbitrary  one.  The  novel 
is  not  an  invention,  it  is  a  growth;  not  a  carefully  out- 
lined machine,  but  a  widely  branching  tree ;  for  which  no 
gardener's  shears  have  yet  been  found  with  power  to  clip 
and  trim,  and  reduce  it  to  live  by  artificial  rule.  It  is 
but  one  of  the  many  forms  into  which  fiction  has  de- 
veloped, through  which  it  is  still  developing.  Our  mod- 
ern novel  is  the  offspring  of  many  and  broadly  differ- 
ing ancestors;  and  from  each  of  its  scattered  lines 
of  descent  it  has  inherited  certain  of  its  present 
characteristic  features.  "In  its  genesis,"  says  Professor 
Cross,  "the  novel  is  as  old  as  either  the  epic  or  the 
drama."1 

'Vide  "New  International  Encyclopaedia,"  edition  of  1904,  Vol. 
XIV,  p.  660. 

7 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

Despite  the  vague  and  widely  scattered  material  with 

which  any  examination  of  the  beginnings  of  fiction  has 

thus  to  deal,  one  can  trace  even  in  the 

earliest  tales  a  real  development,  a  slow 

ngmo  progress  toward  higher  art  and  com- 

pleter  form,  which  lends  to  the  search 
much  analytic  interest. 

Fiction  in  its  widest  sense  may  be  defined  as  the  in- 
tentional separation  of  the  expression  from  the  fact.  As 
such  it  is  older  than  man,  older  than  his  boasted  Simian 
ancestry.  "Old  as  the  world  itself,"  says  one  author  with 
a  pardonable  exuberance  of  fancy ;  for  truly  the  question 
of  the  origin  becomes  matter  for  the  imagination  of  the 
poet,  rather  than  the  sober  scrutiny  of  the  historian.  Yet 
even  under  such  vagrant  guidance  as  Fancy  offers,  some 
consideration  of  beginnings  may  prove  helpful  toward  the 
understanding  of  the  later  development  of  the  story  tell- 
er's art. 

Fiction  in  its  simplest  form,  that  is,  falsehood  plain 
and  unadorned,  must  have  far  antedated  human  intellect. 
The  lie  has  ever  been  the  child  of  mere  vulpine  cunning. 
The  cat,  when  she  strolls  with  that  lazy,  somewhat  bored 
air  away  from  the  half  dead  mouse  only  to  turn  and 
pounce  on  it  as  it  crawls  brokenly  toward  its  hole,  is  a 
fictionist  skilled  to  the  finest  detail.  The  fox,  when  he 
trots  back  over  his  own  trail,  then  leaps  aside  into  the 
brush,  tells  such  a  complete  and  artistic  lie  as  baffles  both 
dog  and  man. 

Yet  one  can  see  that  some  beginning,  crude  and  stumb- 
ling, there  must  have  been.  Our  protoplasmic  ancestors 
did  not  lie.  The  starfish  does  not;  none  of  the  radiata 

8 


THE  BEGINNINGS  OF  STORY  BUILDING 

do.  Even  the  articulata  are  gentlemen  of  their  word,  and  > 
may  be  relied  on  to  the  last  grasp.  In  what  far  geologi- 
cal epoch  life  first  reached  the  lie,  becomes  therefore  as 
elusive  and  shadowy  a  question  as  that  other,  far  more 
solemn  one :  At  what  high  period  of  its  course  will  life 
sweep  beyond  the  lie  and  enter  on  the  simple  security  of 
truth  again? — a  culmination  which,  as  we  trace  the  up- 
ward course  through  all  the  history  of  fiction,  we  begin 
to  feel  is  not  wholly  beyond  conception. 

It  is  perhaps  not  going  too  far  to  say  that  it  was  be- 
cause of  man's  successful  employment  of  the  lie,  because 
he  excelled  in  it,  that  he  first  rose  from  the  brutes,  first 
mastered  them.  At  the  beginning  he  held  in  falsehood  \ 
but  a  poorly  developed  treasure;  he  used  it  only  for  at- 
tack and  defence,  for  trap  and  sudden  dart  and  secret 
hiding-place ;  he  lived  by  it. 

Falsehood  first  became  an  art,  the  "art  of  fiction,"  when, 
quickly  following  on  Self -consciousness,  our  human  Van- 
ity was  born.  The  wild  ape-man  who  thought,  "How 
strong  am  I !"  thought  soon,  we  may  be  sure,  to  let  his 
neighbor  see  his  strength.  When  the  development  of 
language  permitted,  he  boasted  of  his  deeds.  Here  was 
the  first  tale !  So  long  as  the  narrator  kept  wholly  to  the 
facts,  it  was  history.  So  soon  as  he  conceived  the  notion 
of  going  beyond  them,  it  was  fiction.  It  was  conscious 
art. 

At  first  this  art  would  have  dealt  only  in  exaggerations. 
The  narrator  would  have  drawn  all  his  figures  of  heroic 
size.  Then  came  slow  realization  that  the  word  might  be 
wholly  dissociated  from  the  fact,  that  adventures  could 
be  much  better  told  if  one  sat  quietly  at  home  and  thought 

9 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

them  out.  That  artist  who  first  conceived  this  comfort- 
able improvement  upon  fiction,  was  a  genius,  as  great  for 
his  time  as  our  greatest.  His  efforts  need  not  necessarily 
have  lingered  on  his  own  achievements.  The  earnest 
thinker  escapes  some  of  the  smaller  vanities.  More  prob- 
ably the  originator  was  a  poet,  dreaming  of  the  powers 
which  lay  behind  wind  and  wave.  With  him  a  new  Force 
came  into  the  world :  IMAGINATION  was  born.1 

The  next  advances  were  obvious.  If  one  man  could 
invent  a  tale,  so  could  another;  and  each  must  make  his 
heroes  overmatch  the  last.  The  soaring  talent,  in  its  po- 
etic exaltation  of  mundane  fact  or  its  simple  joy  of  self- 
laudation,  had  not  then  to  encounter  carping  critics. 
There  were  no  all-wise  cyclopaedias,  no  known  laws  of 
nature  even,  to  guide  and  curb  it.  Adventurous  tales 
must  soon  have  overleaped  those  boundaries  of  possibility 
of  whose  existence  even  the  authors  were  unaware.  To 
lions,  succeeded  dragons;  to  foes,  giants;  to  great  men, 
gods;  to  cunning  ones,  magicians.  It  is  at  this  point, 
when  fiction  was  still  speaking  in  the  voice  of  history,  but 
with  such  excessive  grimace  that  the  shrewder  listeners 
must  have  known  her  clearly  for  another  than  her  twin 
sister,  it  is  at  this  point  that  our  antiquarians  have 
stumbled  in  Egypt  on  the  earliest  surviving  record  of  the 
art. 

Here  then  the  seeker  must  discard  the  swift  wings  of 
fancy  and  constrain  himself  to  plod  onward  with  the 

Perhaps  the  earliest  myths,  the  primeval  folk-lore  tales  were 
of  this  conscious  fiction,  poet-born.  Personally,  however,  I  incline 
to  think  them  products  of  the  earlier  stage,  scarcely  even  conscious 
exaggerations,  but  metaphorical  expressions  of  a  soon-forgotten 
fact. 

IO 


THE  BEGINNINGS  OF  STORY  BUILDING 

slower,  surer  step  of  science.  This  "oldest  story  in  the 
world"  surely  deserves  careful  investigation.  Moreover 
before  delving  into  it  one  must  reach  some  general  basis 
of  understanding  as  to  the  essential  elements  of  the  novel, 
The  miner  must  be  prepared  to  recognize  each  rough 
hewn  jewel. 


IT 


CHAPTER  II 
THE  ELEMENTS  OF  THE  NOVEL 

Differing  Views     What  is  a  novel?    If  one  appeals  to  the 

piihlishrd  authorities  for  the  guidance  of 

J?ovel!j  .  definitions,  he  finds  himself  confronted 

Euentials 

by  wide  divergencei  of  view,  or  at  least 

of  practice.  The  fact  that  the  novel  has  been  a  growth, 
perhaps  sufficiently  explftitll  why  each  new  work  upon  its 
history  begins  in  a  different  place  and  with  a  different 
tale. 

The  renown  of  being  "the  first  novel,"  or  "the  first 
modern  novel/'  a  customary  discrimination  which  has  no 
value  except  that  of  insisting  on  increasing  exactitude  of 
technique,  has  been  ascribed  to  a  dozen  widely  separat"! 
works.  Many  of  our  hi  foiie  of  lifetime  'till  confer 
the  honor  upon  Richard  on'  "Pamela"  (17,10).  Other-; 
attribute  it  to  Defoe's  narratives  (1719).  Frenchmen 
dispute  the  claim  of  "Pamela"  in  favor  of  the  work  of 
Prevo  f  Of  Marivaux  (circa  1730),  or  even  of  Madame 
Lafayette's  "Princess  of  Cleves,"  half  a  centUfy  earlier 
M.  Jusserand  devotes  an  entire  interesting  book  to  "'I  In- 
Novel  in  the  Time  of  Shakespean •"  ;  and  1  Yofessor  \\ 
ren  writes  a  "History  of  the  Novel  Previous  to  the  Kigh- 
teenth  Century,"  in  which  he  leled  II  the  In  t  novel 
"Amadis  of  Gaul"  (circa  1470).  Thi  diffeiencr  of  ex- 
pression evidently  indicates  that  each  of  these  crih<  ha 
established  for  himself  a  slightly  differing  definition  of 

12 


THE  KI.KMKMTS  OF  THE  NOVEL 

tin-  novel,  so  iliat  one  is  willing  to  include  under  the  name 
\\ 'li.il  another  regards  as  lacking  some  essential  element. 

The  derivation  of  the  name  itself  is  of  little  value  in 
deciding  upon  its  present  meaning ;  because  the  two  have 
only  an  accidental  association.  Both  Richardson  and  his 
celebrated  successor  Fielding  preferred  to  call  their  works 
"histoiies"  while  "novella"  was  in  their  day  an  Italian 
expression  for  a  little  tale.  Indeed,  well  into  the  nine- 
it  -ruth  eentnr\ .  the  dietionarie  persisted  in  following  this 
Italian  meaning  in  their  definition  of  the  word  novel. 

Tiuiim:;  ne\t  to  the  critics  for  assistance,  one  is  met 

by  the  difficulty  that,  so  far  as  the  matter  can  be  traced, 

earlier  ages  were  content  to  enjoy  their 

Early  Attempts     stories   without   analyzing  them.     The 

AbW    HuCt'S    "0riSine    des    Romans»" 
published  in  1678  in  discussion  of  Mme. 

Lai.  Tories   is  the  earliest  extant   work  which 

attempts  to  take  the  novel  seriously.  Mainly,  however, 
in  this  and  its  accompanying  "Observations  et  Jugemens 
sur  les  rrineipatix  Romans  Francois,"  the  Abbe  has  only 
unstinted  praise  for  all  he  reads,  and  so  his  opinions  are 
of  little  permanent  value,  exeept  as  showing  how  easily 
a  pleasant  gentleman  can  be  satisfied. 

1  le  establishes  a  definition,  in  which  the  word  romance 
is  of  course  n^ed.  as  it  is  still  used  in  France,  as  being 
Marty  Miioiivmous  with  the  English  term  novel:  "What 
are  properly  called  romances  are  fictions  of  love  adven- 
tures written  in  prose  with  art,  for  the  pleasure  and 
instruction  of  readers."1  This  the  earliest  definition 

The  passage  opmx  tho  second  paragraph  of  the  original  edition, 
e  des  Romans,"  Paris,   1678.    "Cc  que  Ion  appele 
propi-am-nt     Romans    .son!    di-s    firlions    d'.ivcntim-    amourou  . 
ivec  ait, pour  le  plaisir  et  1'instruction des  lecteurs. 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

which  at  all  approaches  an  examination  of  the  modern 
novel,  will  deserve  remembrance  in  our  later  search, 
chiefl^for  what  it  leaves  out.  The  Abbe  discusses  his 
definition  exhaustively,  without  any  reference  whatever 

plot.    The  idea  of  uni^was  apparently  wholly  foreign 

his  conception  of  thelRbject. 

Dr.  Johnson,  whose  dictionary  did  so  much  to  settle 
the  English  meanings  of  terms,  had  read  both  Richardson 
and  Fielding;  yet  he  was  content  to  define  a  novel  as  "a 
smooth  tale,  generally  of  love."  The  phrase  has  been 
often  quoted  in  ridicule  against  him,  especially  in  connec- 
tion with  "Rasselas,"  his  own  loveless  effort  of  the  kind  ; 
but  it  must  be  remembered  that  Jatnson  probably  had  in 
mind  the  Italian  novella  as  well  as  the  English  tale,  and 
sought  to  include  both  in  a  general  summary.  The  defini- 
tion seems  at  least  worth  while  as  a  personal  confession. 
What  the  good  doctor  looked  for  in  his  own  nov|)  read- 
ing must  have  been  a  stirring  of  tender  emotions,  united 
to  a  pleasant  style. 

Clara  Reeve  in  her  "Progress  of  Romance"  (1785) 
seems  the  earliest  professional  critic  to  attempt  any  seri- 
ous analysis  of  the  newly  risen  literary  form.  She  offers 
a  definition  :  "The  Novel  is  a  picture  of  real  life  and 
manners,  and  of  the  times  in  which  it  is  written."1  This 
sentence,  however,  had  not  for  its  primary  purpose  the 
explaining  of  the  novel  itself,  but  rather  the  separation 
of  the  more  recent  species  from  the  older  and  broader 
world  of  romance,  from  which  it  was  developing  and 
had  become  differentiated.  Any  book,  whether  history, 


dialogue  "Progress  of  Romance,"  original  edition,   Col 
chester,  1785.  ^ 

14 


THE  ELEMENTS  OF  THE  NOVEL       . 

poetry,  or  geography,  unless  like  the  mediaeval  romances 
it  deliberately  aims  to  speak  of  other  ages  and  super- 
human folk,  will  be  a  picture  of  some  part  of  the  Ute  and 
manners  of  the  times  in  which  it  is  written.  Moreover 
we  can  not  to-day  accept  a  definition  which  by  i 
on  a  contemporary  record  e^Pdes  the  historical 
Let  us  pick,  therefore,  only  one  suggestive  point  from 
this  third  definition — the  novel  antagonized  the  old 
romances ;  it  sought  an  effect  of  reality. 

^lidding,  the  great  conscious  artist  who  first  examined 
the  technique  of  the  new  art,  discusses  his  own  experi- 
ments most  interestingly.  He  says  in  "Tom.Jones,"  "As 
I  am  in  reality  the  founder  of  a  new  province  of  writing, 
so  I  am  at  liberty  to  TOake  what  laws  I  please  therein."1 
He  insists  mainly  on  three  points.  First,  his  work  must 
be  interesting  and  not  too  intense;  it  is  to  be  "serio- 
comic^ "mock  heroic."  Second,  it  is  to  show  real  life; 
he  is  never  done  jeering  at  the  old  romances,  and  he  dis- 
cusses at  some  length  just  how  improbable  an  event  he 
may  be  allowed  to  introduce.  Third,  the  story  must  aim 
to  teach  people  the  folly  as  well  as  the  wickedness  of  all 
dishonesty.  Here,  then,  we  have  Mrs.  Reeve's  demand 
for  verisimilitude  reasserted,  and  closely  allied  with  it 
the  older  idea  of  Huet  that  this  picture  of  life  must  try 
to  teach  a  lesson — perhaps  it  were  better  to  say,  teaches 
without  trying,  even  as  real  life  does. 

In  the  preface  to  "Joseph  Andrews,"  his  earlier  work,  i 
Fielding  speaks  of  the  novel  as  a  "comic  epic"  in  prose.  -•. 
Epics,  he  tells  us,  are  enlarged  tragedies,  and  this  new 

'Vide  "History  of  Tom  Jones,"  Book  II,  Chap.  I,  also  the  first 
chapters  of  Books  IV  and  VIII.  m 

15 


J 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

form  of  his  an  enlarged  comedy.1  This  comparison 
seems  to  imply  that  the  novel  is  to  have  plot,  unity,  ac- 
tion, exciting  situations,  and  in  short  all  the  main  ele- 
ments of  the  comic  drama.  Let  us  take  the  following 
vthen  as  being  roughly  what  Fielding  never  attempts  to 
put  into  condensed  form/ "his  definition  of  the  novel.  It 
is  an  enlarged  comedy,  true  to  common  life  and  morally 
instructive,  built  for  the  library,  not  the  stage. 

Such,  however,  was  not  the  general  comprehension  of 
a  novel  in  Fielding's  day.  The  very  ablest  of  his  follow- 
ers could  not  rise  to  such  exactitude  of  form.  To  quote 
Professor  Cross  in  his  estimate  of  Smollett,  "If  a  fable 
may  drift  along  at  the  pleasure  of  an  author,  with  the 
episode  thrust  in  at  will,  then  anybody  can  write  a  novel. 
.  .  .  The  novel  thus  put  into  the  hands  of  the  mob, 
ceased  to  be  a  serious  literary  product/'2  This  is  but  the 
voicing  of  a  common  criticism,  which  asserts  tfcat  the 
later  novelists  of  the  eighteenth  century  failed  to  grasp 
the  true  meaning  and  value  of  the  technique  of  Richard- 
son and  Fielding. 

One  must  look,  therefore,  among  modern  writers  for 

the  first  clear  and  commonly  accepted  analysis  of  the 

principles  underlying  the  novel ;  though 

our  critics  have  naturally  avoided  exact 
Definitions 

definitions  or  limitations  with  so  free  a 

form.  The  insistence  on  close  following  of  plot  becomes 
steadily  more  emphatic.  In  1882,  Mr.  Tuckerman  in  his 
"History  of  English  Prose  Fiction"3  said,  "It  is  to  this 

Wide  "Joseph  Andrews,"  preface,  p.  2. 

2Vide"The  Development  of  the  English  Novel,"  1899,  p.  64. 

3Vide  "History  of  English  Prose  Fiction,"  p.  208. 

16 


THE  ELEMENTS  OF  THE  NOVEL 

^excellence  of  plot — the  subordination  of  each  minor  cir- 
cumstance to  the  general  aim,  the  skill  with  which  all 
events  are  made  to  lead  up  to  the  final  denouement — that 
Fielding  if  any  one  deserves  the  title  of  the  founder  of 
the  English  novel."  As  a  criticism  of  Fielding  this  might 
excite  argument,  since  the  great  originator  himself,  ob- 
sessed by  his  epic  idea,  urged  the  necessity  of  the  "epi- 
sode" :  that  is,  the  detached  incident  or  even  wholly  un- 
connected story  told  by  a  character  within  the  tale^  for 
the  purpose  of  affording  variety.  But  Mr.  Tuckerman's 
words  are  very  valuable  as  emphasizing  how  important 
to  modern  eyes  has  grown  the  close  holding  to  the  thread 
of  the  story's  plot.  Perhaps  Fielding  builded  better  than 
he  knew.- 

Jusserand  in  his  "English  Novel  of  the  Time  of  Shake- 
speare" has  the  same  thought  in  view.  He  asserts  that 
Thomas  Nash  first  pointed  out  the  "road  that  was  to  lead 
to  the  true  novel,"  in  that  he  was  the  first  "to  endeavor 
to  relate  in  prose  a  long,  sustained  story,  having  for  its 
chief  concern:  the  truth."1  These  words  are  perhaps  a 
trifle  vague;  but  "sustained  story"  presumably  means 
plot,  and  it  is  of  course  truth  of  resemblance  to  life,  not 
actual  truth  of  incident,  that  is  put  forward  as  the  most 
important  point. 

Professor  Warren  in  his  "History  of  the  Novel" 
(1895)  attempts  a  closer  handling  of  the  matter,  is  the 
first,  in  fact,  to  supply  us  with  a  measured  definition :  "A 
novel  is  a  fictitious  prose  narrative  which  contains  a  plot."2 

'Vide   "English    Novel   in   the   Time   of   Shakespeare,"    1890, 

'Vide  "History  of  the  Novel  Previous  to  the  Eighteenth  Cen- 
tury," 1895,  P-  ii. 

17 


r 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

Thus  there  has  been  gradually  established  an  increasing 
and  now  insistent  demand  foi^verisimilitude/and  for  plot. 

Looking  a  step  further,  one  finds  other 
The  Essential  elements  also  numbered  as  essentials. 
Mccte?  Professor  Bliss  Perry,  speaking  of  the 

near  connection  of  poet  and  novelist, 
gives  several  suggestions  which  approach  a  definition: 
"Novelist  and  poet  alike  are  primarily  interested  in  human 
life.  They  describe  it  as  it  seems  to  have  manifested 
itself  in  the  irrevocable  past,  as  it  exists  to-day,  and  as  it 
may  be  found  in  the  imaginary,  unknown  world  of  the 
future.  They  are  interested  in  all  that,  surrounds  human 
life  and  affects  its  myriad  operations.  The  external  world, 
as  it  is  portrayed  by  the  novelists  and  poets,  is  chiefly  a 
setting  and  framework  for  the  more  complete  exhibition 
of  human  characteristics.1  The  incidents  which  they  nar- 
rate h^ye  for  their  aim  the  portrayal  of  character  in  this 
or  that  emergency  and  evil  of  actual  circumstance,  or 
else  they  are  as  it  were  the  mechanism — the  gymnastic  ap- 
paratus— by  which  life  might  test  and  measure  itself  if 
it  pleased.  Both  novelist  and  poet,  in  a  word,  care  first  of 
all  for  persons."2  ... 

That  American  genius,  too  soon  lost  from  among  us, 
Sidney  Lanier,  after  pointing  out  that  the  novelist  affects 
to  reveal  the  inmost  hearts  of  his  characters,  to  pass  judg- 
ment on  their  motives,  says,  "This  consideration  seems  to 
me  to  lift  the  novel  to  the  very  highest  and  holiest  plane 
of  creative  effort;  he  who  takes  up  the  pen  of  the  novelist 

lrrhe  italics  here  and  in  the  following  passages  are  employed 
only  by  the  present  writer. 
2Vide  "A  Study  of  Prose  Fiction,"  1902,  p.  32. 

18 


THE  ELEMENTS  OF  THE  NOVEL 

assumes  as  to  that  novel  to  take  up  along  with  it  the  om- 
niscience of  God."1 

Lastly,  let  me  recall  the  advice  of  Stej^enson,  that  other 
genius  untimely  dead.  In  his  "Humble  Remonstrance" 
he  bids  the  story  teller  "choose  a  motive,  whether  of  char^\ 
acter  or  of  passion;  carefully  construct  his  plot  so  that 
every  incident  is  an  illustration  of  the  motive,  and  every 
property  employed  shall  bear  to  it  a  near  relation  of  con- 
gruity  or  contrast ;  avoid  a  sub-plot,  unless,  as  sometimes 
in  Shakespeare,  the  sub-plot  be  a  reversion  or  complement 
of  the  main  intrigue ;  .  .  .  and  allow  neither  himself  in 
the  narrative,  nor  any  character  in  the  course  of  the  di- 
alogue, to  utter  one  sentence  that  is  not  part  and  parcel  of 
the  business  of  the  story  or  the  discussion  of  the  problem 
involved.  .  .  .  And  as  the  root  of  the  whole  matter, 
let  him  bear  in  mind  that  his  novel  is  not  a  transcript  of 
life,  to  be  judged  by  its  exactitude,  but  a  simplification  of 
some  side  or  point  of  life,  to  stand  or  fall  by  its  significant 
simplicity."2 

In  face  of  such  exalted  views  as  these  the  novel  must 
begin  to  seem  a  somewhat  high  and  difficult  form.  One 
can  scarce  be  content  to  dismiss  it  simply  as  a  "sustained 
story."  Or  if  we  conclude  to  accept  it  as  "a  fictitious 
prose  narrative  which  contains  a  plot,"  then  the  words 
fictitious  and  prose  are  merely  limitations,  and  the  only 
explanatory  words  giving  the  content  of  the  idea  are  nar- 
rative and  plot,  which  latter  must  be  expanded  to  mean 
many  things. 

Especially  noteworthy  is  the  fact  that  each  of  the  stand- 

'Vide  "The  English  Novel,"  revised  edition  of  1900  p.  270. 
2Vide  "Memories  and  Portraits,"  Collier  ed.,  Vol.  XII,  p.  187. 

19 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

ard  authors  just  quoted  dwells  upon  a  different  point. 
Perry  insists  on  the  portrayal  of  character,  on  the  veri- 
similitude by  which  life  may  measure  itself.  Hence  nat- 
urally enough  he  declares  himself  an  admirer  of  the  novels 
of  William  Dean  Howells.  Lanier  speaks  of  the  solem- 
nity of  the  author's  position,  the  deep  religious  spirit 
which  should  animate  him ;  and  then  Lanier  offers  George 
Eliot  as  the  typical  great  novelist.  Stevenson  insists  on 
motive  and  plot,  on  the  close  connection  and  intimate  rela- 
tion which  every  word  must  have  to  the  "business  of  the 
story."  He  has  illustrated  this  in  his  own  brilliant  tales. 

Stevenson  also  mentions  passion,  and  other  critics  di- 
rect our  attention  still  more  to  the  importance  of  present- 
ing characters  under  stress  of  this  emotional  excitement. 
Professor  Stoddard  in  his  "Study  of  the  Novel"  suggests 
that  "One  may  even  .  .  .  say  that  a  novel  is  a  story  of 
the  progress  of  some  passion*  and  its  effect  upon  a  life." 

Thus  we  have  already  for  the  novel  four  more  or  less 
essential  elements :  ( i )  the  plot,  the  story,  the  connected 
"action,"  recognized  as  of  primary  importance  by  every 
one  from  Fielding  to  Stevenson,  though  with  widely  dif- 
fering views  as  to  its  requirements  ;1  (2)  verisimilitude, 
convincingness,  truth  not  to  some  actually  existing  oc- 
currence but  to  the  law  of  life  which  lies  behind;  this 
might  perhaps  be  identified  with  the.  earnestness,  the  high 
seriousness,  insisted  on  by  Lanier;]  (3)  character  por- 
trayal, which  exists  of  course  in  mapy  stages  of  develop- 
ment, sometimes  as  a  mere  childish  recognition  that  men 

"Vide  "A  Study  of  the  Novel,"  1901,  p.  4. 
2Later  on  we  shall  come  to  a  single  school  which,  while  admit- 
ting the  necessity  of  plot,  treats  it  as  a  minor  matter. 

20 


• 


THE  ELEMENTS  OF  THE  NOVEL 

are  different,  then  as  an  attempt  to  portray  the  outward 
difference,  next  as  a  study  of  the  inward  causes  of  dif- 
ference, and  finally  as  an  analysis  of  character  growth 
under  the  stress  of  life,  which  may  be  more  or  less  con- 
nected with  the  next  element;  (4)  emotional  excitement 
or  passion. 

Turning  now  to  the  novel  writers  themselves,  one  finds 
many  of  them  giving  emphasis  to  yet  other  points.  Thus, 
Ebers'  works  are  really  pictures  of  Egyptian  manners  and 
customs;  his  "background,"  his  stage  setting,  becomes 
more  important  than  the  story  told  upon  it.  Marie  Corelli 
paints  dream  pictures  in  words  of  music ;  it  is  her  "s^yle" 
that  fascinates  her  admirers.  Mrs.  Ward  under  guise  of 
a  novel  presents  and  demands  consideration  for  some 
solemn  and  perplexing  problem  of  human  life.  Anna 
Katharine  Green  challenges  our  wits  to  solve  a  riddle. 
Her  technical  art  seems  concerned  not  with  plot  in  its 
ordinary  sense,  but  with  that  further  development  of 
plot  known  as  intrigue,  the  concealment  of  the  true 
plot  or  sequence  of  events,  the  presenting  it  in  in- 
verted order  and  playing  hide-and-seek  with  the  reader's 
ingenuity. 

The  novel,  then,  may  concern  itself  further  with  (5) 
background  ;  (6)  style ;  (7)  purpose,  that  is,  the  book  may 
have  a  distinct  purpose  of  its  own,  to  urge  this  or  that  ^f 
"referm,  as  distinguished  from  Fielding's  and  Lanier's 
earlier  idea  of  the  necessity  of  high  general  purpose  or 
nobility  on  the  author's  part;  and  (8)  intrigue.  Of  these 
the  eighth  may  perhaps  be  dismissed  as  a  mere  subdi- 
vision of  plot  or  story.  For  the  present  discussion  the 
seventh,  the  purpose  of  the  author,  whether  it  be  just  to 

21 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

speak  out  the  soul  that  is  in  him,  or  to  propose  a  problem, 
or  to  teach  a  lesson,  or  merely  to  make  a  book  which  shall 
amaze  and  amuse  us,  and  put  money  in  his  own  purse — 
this  purpose  may  most  readily  be  considered  in  combina- 
tion with  the  second  suggested  element,  verisimilitude. 
That  is  to  say,  the  desire  to  express  truth  is  only  one 
among  the  various  purposes  which  a  writer  may  have. 
That  it  should  be  the  chief  purpose  of  the  novel,  perhaps 
the  only  one,  we  have  just  seen  asserted  by  both  critics 
and  novelists.  Early  fiction,  however,  did  not  show  itself 
specially  eager  for  verisimilitude.  Other  desires  swayed 
the  story  teller  far  more  strongly.  Hence  I  have  preferred, 
temporarily  at  least,  to  group  the  aim  of  showing  truth 
with  the  many  other  possible  aims  of  fiction,  and  to  give 
the  second  element  of  the  novel  the  wider  general  name 
.  of  "motive."  Some  impelling  motive  it  is  obvious  a  writer 
[must  have;  and  the  nature  of  this  will  control  the  nature 
of  his  book.  To  what  extent  the  desire  to  express  truth 
must  dominate  all  other  aims  in  the.  novel,  is  a  question 
for  later  consideration. 

There  are  other  elements  in  contemporary  story  writing 
which  might  also  demand  attention.  Such  for  instance  is 
humor.  But  charming  as  humor  is,  it  is  not  an  essential 
element.  Novels  and  extremely  valuable  orres  have  been 
written  without  it.  Moreover  its  use  in  fiction  does  not 
differ  from  its  use  elsewhere.  It  is  for  this  present  view 
an  extrinsic  thing,  an  ornament. 

The  six  points  thus  left  remaining  represent  each  of 
them  a  distinct  department  with  which  the  modern  novel 
does  and  must  concern  itself.  (That  is,  give  a  man  a  mo- 
tive— or  more  specifically  a  cresire  to  express  truth — 


/ 

22 


THE  ELEMENTS  OF  THE  NOVEL 

strong  enough  to  set  him  writing  out  his  thoughts;  give 
him  words,  a  style  wherewith  to  clothe  the  thought ;  char- 
acters, people  to  figure  out  the  thought  to  others; /emo- 
tion, some  inward  excitement  to  stir  the  characters  above 
mere  eating  and  sleeping ;  plot,  a  connected  series  of  ac-f 
tions  springing  from  the  emotion ;  and  lastly  a  background 
of  common  life  or  scenery  against  which  all  may  stand; 
combine  these  and  you  have  a  novel.)  Exclude  any  one  of 
them  and  you  have  not.  Which  element  could  be  left  out? 
Background,  the  detail?  The  result  would  be  a  mere 
scenario,  a  list  of  events,  a  series  of  notes,  waiting  to  be 
expanded.  Emotion,  passion,  the  root  of  every  energetic 
act  in  life?  The  result  would  be  an  unintelligible  mon- 
strosity, ghosts  moving  without  cause,  automata  prosing 
one  knew  not  what  nor  why. 

Indeed  these  six  elements,  instead  of  being  gathered 
from  the  discussions  of  previous  writers,  might  have  been 
deduced  logically  enough  from  a  mere  glance  at  the  struc- 
ture of  present-day  fiction.  A  novel  can  not  consist  simply 
of  a  fixed  picture,  a  description  of  a  man  in  repose.  It 
must  show  him  acting  and  acted  upon.  In  other  words,  \ 
it  deals  with  man  in  his  relation  to  his  environment.  Hence  j 
it  must  have  two  essentials,  the  man  and  his  movements, 
that  is,  the  characters  and  the  story.  The  causes  and  ef- 
fects of  these  two  essentials  give  us  two  more.  The  man 
can  only  move  as  he  is  swayed  internally  by  his  emotions ; 
and  the  movement  can  only  be  seen  externally  in  its  effect 
fcn  his  surroundings,  his  background.  These  four  form 
the  positive  elements  or  content  of  the  novel,  and  they 
must  be  presented  under  the  limitations  set  by 
man's  experience  of  life  or  verisimilitude,  and  by  his 

23 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

inadequate    modes    of    conveying    ideas,    his    style    of 
speech.1 

The  tracing  of  the  gradual  recognition  of  these  essen- 
tials in  fiction  and  the  establishment  of  their  principles  of 
technique  become  now  the  subjects  of 

this  book*  Let  me'  therefore>  restate 
Elements  these  elements,  placing  them  somewhat 

roughly  in  the  order  of  their  prominence 
for  my  present  purpose.  They  are : 

1.  Plot. 

2.  Motive  or  Verisimilitude. 

3.  Character  portrayal. 

4.  Emotional  excitement.  • 

5.  Background. 

6.  Style. 

And  let  us  a  little  further  discriminate  their  relations  and 
relative  value. 

Why  does  Mr.  Ebers  write  novels  instead  of  works  on 
archaeology?  Why  does  not  the  character  student  copy 
the  charming  essays  of  Addison  ?  The  devotee  of  emotion 
or  of  style  make  poems?  The  enthusiast  of  "purpose" 

TThese  six  essentials  will  be  found  to  differ  not  very  widely 
from  Aristotle's  six  parts  of  tragedy — Fable,  Manners,  Diction, 
Sentiments,  Stage  decorations  and  Music.  Style  corresponds  to 
both  Diction  and  Music.  For  Stage  decorations,  the  novel  sub- 
stitutes a  background  of  description.  And  Aristotle's  "Senti- 
ments" partly  cover  emotion  as  well  as  something  of  verisimili- 
tude ;  for,  as  he  phrases  it,  "This  part  includes  the  saying  of  what 
is  proper  and  suited  to  the  subject^  [I  have  seen  the  passage 
printed  in  translation,  "what  is  true" ;  but  though  this  idea  of 
truth  is  probably  included,  it  is  not  positively  expressed,  rofiro 
tit  'effnv  TO  fayetv  dvvaodai  TO,  Jev6vra  KCU  ra  'ap^rrovra]  ;  it  is 
the  thing  which  is  the  function  of  the  statesman's  art  and  of  the 
orator's."  That,  is,  arousal  and  conviction,  emotion  and  veri- 
similitude. 

24 


THE  ELEMENTS  OF  THE  NOVEL 

•     *  . 

preach  a  sermon  ?    The  answer,  obvious  as  it  is,  leads  us 

toward  the  essential  nature  of  the  novel.  Each  of  these 
writers  adopts  the  novel  as  a  vehicle  for  expression,  be- 
cause thus  can  he  reach  a  wider  public,  because  people 
want  a  "story."  Every  one  of  us  asks  to  know  life,  to  live 
deeply,  if  not  in  his  own  emotions  and  experiences,  then 
in  those  of  others.  So  we  listen,  eagerly  listen,  for  the 
"story." 

There  is  a  popular  fallacy  that  anybody  can  tell  a  story. 
Every  man,  woman  or  child  attempts  unhesitatingly  to  nar- 
rate the  adventure  of  the  day;  and  most  of  them  never 
realize  just  how  badly  they  have  failed,  what  feeble  and  _ 
false  impressions  they  have  given  to  their  hearers.     A  j 
story  is  not  an  exact  repetition  of  life.    No  story  could 
be  that;  because  in  life  many  million  things  are  happen- 
ing all  around  us,  all  at  once ;  and  of  these  concurrent  in-  \ 
cidents  only  a  very  small  fraction  have  any  clear  connec- 
tion with  our  tale.    Perhaps  a  dozen  of  them  are  in  fairly 
close  and  interesting  relation  to  it.     But  there  is  always  ^ 
just  the  one  detail  that  is  for  the  instant  most  interesting,  \ 
most  valuable,  most  vital.     The  majority  of  tale-tellers   ; 
manage  to  keep  within  the  range  of  the  dozen  or  so  of 
related  ideas;  it  is  only  genius  that  strikes  always  and 
inevitably  upon  the  one. 

This  brings  us  back  to  what  Stevenson  called  the  novel, 
"a  simplification."  Does  this  one  most  interesting,  most 
vital  consequence  usually  follow  each  event  in  real  life? 
How  can  it,  with  the  million  cross  currents  of  other  af- 
fairs always  sweeping  across  our  path?  By  the  interrup- 
tions of  the  outside  world,  we  lose,  or  we  escape,  the  re- 
sults we  have  deserved.  The  "art"  of  the  novel  does  away 

25 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

with  these  impertinent  interruptions;  it  avoids,  except 
where  it  desires  to  retain,  the  chances  and  confusions  of 
1  life.  It  invents  the  sequence  which  makes  it  "significant." 

A  novel,  then,  consists  of  the  gathering  of  a  single  series 
of  human,  that  is  to  say,  emotional,  events  from  out  the 
vast  whirl  of  loosely  related  incidents  which  we  call  "the 
world."  It  endeavors  to  trace  a  series  of  causes  to  their 
series  of  effects.  Rejecting  all  the  intervening  masses  of 
irrelevant  matter  which  make  the  lessons  of  life  so  hard 
to  read,  the  novel  points,  or  should  point  clearly  as  it  can, 
the  winding  of  the  road  down  which  some  soul  has  trav- 
elled, the  goal  which,  if  another  mortal  follow  the  same 
route,  he  also  is  most  like  to  reach.  "Quo  Vadis"  should 
be  the  title  not  of  one  story,  but  of  all. 

Let  us,  therefore,  establish  this  as  our  working  defini- 
tion of  the  novel,  or  at  least  of  the  novel's  plot.    It  is  the 
tracing  of  a  single  series  of  events  from 

01  ung          their  causes  through  their  various  inter- 
Definition  . 

actions  to  their   consequences — perhaps 

we  should  not  be  far  astray  if  we  said  the  tracing  of 
trivial  and  unrecognized  causes  to  their  infinite  and  in- 
evitable results.  The  ideally  perfect  plot  would  admit 
into  a  novel  not  one  picture,  not  one  word,  that  did  not 
bear  upon  the  development  of  some  such  series. 

This  definition  may  be  made  to  include  most  other  ele- 
ments of  the  novel  as  well  as  plot.  Thus  perfection  of 
plot  would  presuppose  absolute  truth,  perfection  of  vi- 
sion. The  unity  of  a  story  is  really  dependent  on  an 
inner  and  far  deeper  unity  of  soul  or  thought  or  purpose. 
Thus  also,  the  most  solemn  consequence  of  any  series  of 
events  is  the  change  that  they  develop  in  some  human 

26 


THE  ELEMENTS  OF  THE  NOVEL 

soul;  and  so  we  have  character  study  insisted  on,  and 
passion. 

Perhaps  the  whole  subject  will  seem  clearer  if  we  con-" 
sider  the  novel  for  a  moment  as  a  set  of  steps.    As  a  rule 
these  mount  steadily  to  the  end.    There 
is  no  long  f alling_a_ctipn :  very  rarely  can 
of  Steps  one  find  emPhasized,  as  in  the  drama,  a 

middle  climax  with  its  line  of  ascent  and 
descent.  Rather,  as  in  life,  each  effect  becomes  in  its 
turn  a  cause,  and  so  there  is  one  long  progression.  To 
this  the  step  diagram  not  inaccurately  applies.  The  inci- 
dents form  the  short  perpendicular  lines.  Each  incident, 
each  action  raises  the  characters,  and  the  reader  also,  to 
a  higher  emotional  level,  to  a  keener  knowledge  of  one 
another,  and  a  stronger  interest  in  all.  Then  for  a  space 
the  story  moves  horizontally  through  description  or  com- 
ment till  the  reader  has  grown  familiar  with  the  new  level, 
is  at  home  in,  and  can  remember  it.  Then  the  story  rises 
again.  At  the  summit  of  the  series  the  author  leads  us 
into  his  people's  heart  of  hearts,  gives  such  knowledge  of 
them,  of  ourselves,  of  life,  as  it  is  in  him  to  give,  and 
leaves  us  to  meditate  in  the  sanctum  we  have  reached.  Or 
perhaps  he  pushes  us  out  to  drop  like  the  rocket  stick  back 
to  an  ordinary  world,  and  that,  if  you  like,  is  a  high  con- 
densement  of  tragedy's  falling  action. 

Sometimes,  to  be  sure,  the  steps  fail  to  climb.  The 
weakness  of  most  of  the  forerunners  of  the  novel,  as  of 
not  a  few  works  of  more  recent  date,  lies  exactly  here. 
The  novelist,  while  plodding  along  his  horizontal  line  of 
commentary,  loses  our  attention,  forgets  the  altitude  he 
has  reached,  his  line  dips,  he  sends  us  coasting,  as  it  were, 

27 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

down  hill.  Hence  when  his  next  perpendicular  line  of 
incident  appears,  it  does  but  raise  us  to  the  same  height 
as  before.  His  novels  reach  no  climax  at  all.  They  lack 
'•cumulative  interest. 

In  searching  among  the  ancestors  of  the  novel,  I  have 
found  it  useful  to  take  this  question  of  construction,  of 
story,  for  a  guide.  Let  us  therefore,  starting  at  the  be- 
ginning, advance  historically  looking  for  a  fully  de- 
veloped plot,  including  a  series  of  causes,  the  interweav- 
ing threads  of  various  lives,  emotional  excitement,  rejec- 
tion of  extraneous  matter,  and  persistent  progress  toward 
a  result.  In  reaching  that,  we  reach  a  novel. 

The  goal  can  not  be  attained  by  a  straight  arrow  flight. 
No  Roman  road  was  laid  out,  with  this  end  in  view  from 
the  beginning.  On  the  contrary,  not  one  of  the  novel's 
six  essentials  has  developed  along  uninterrupted  or 
steadily  progressive  lines.  The  path  has  seemed  so  broken 
and  confused  that,  at  the  more  important  turning  points, 
I  have  placed  summaries,  which  I  would  beg  the  reader 
not  wholly  to  ignore.  I  may  be  permitted  to  premise  that 
each  of  the  other  elements  will  be  seen  far  advanced  in 
technique,  before  we  arrive  at  any  definite  recognition  of 
the  requirements  of  plot. 


28 


CHAPTER  III 
THE  EGYPTIAN  TALES 

The  The   earliest   attempts   at   story   telling 

Fragmentary  t^at  ^ave  come  down  to  us  unaltered  are 
Manuscripts  those  of  the  Egyptians.  Every  decade  or 
so  produces  yet  another  tattered  manuscript  from  among 
those  ancient  tombs  along  the  Nile,  to  convince  us  that 
the  Egyptians  had  an  extensive  literature  of  fiction. 

Unfortunately,  these  manuscripts  seldom  reach  us  in 
anything  like  perfect  condition.  The  beginning  is  lost,  or 
the  end,  and  sometimes  both.  The  tale  is  incomplete; 
its  plot,  its  unity,  can  not  be  positively  determined;  and 
thus  conclusions  drawn  from  these  manuscripts  are  apt 
to  be  fragmentary  as  themselves.  With  this  preliminary 
caution,  let  us  look  to  them  more  closely. 

Among  the  papyri  is  one  so  much  more  antiquated  than 
its  fellows  that  its  contents  have  the  undisputed  right  to 
be  called  the  oldest  story  now  extant  in 
The  the  world. 

The  oldest  story  in  the  world!  Con- 
sidering how  little  this  tale  is  generally 
known,  considering  that  no  history  of  fiction  has  yet 
taken  note  of  it,  the  necessity  arises  of  describing  the 
story  somewhat  in  detail.  Scientifically  speaking,  it  is  the 
"Westcar  Papyrus."  and  no  other  document  except  the 
''Book  of  the  Dead"  has  been  so  exhaustively  studied 
from  the  Egyptologist's  point  of  view.  In  German  there 

29 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

are  several  published  works  on  it,  with  Erman's  compre- 
hensive study  in  two  folio  volumes  at  the  head.  Maspero 
among  others  has  handled  it  in  French.  But  in  English 
we  have  only  the  little  unannotated  translation  that  Petrie 
gave  us  in  1895. 

The  manuscript  itself  is  at  least  as  old  as  the  beginning 
of  the  twelfth  Egyptian  dynasty.  No  more  modern  date, 
therefore,  can  possibly  be  assigned  to  it  than  about^Tpp 
B.  c.  Egyptologists  hesitate,  however,  whether  to  "place 
the  composition  of  the  tale  there,  or  in  the  fourth  dynasty 
some  thirteen  hundred  years  earlier,  nearly  or  wholly  con- 
temporaneous, that  is  to  say,  with  Cheops,  the  great 
pyramid  builder,  of  whom  it  speaks.  Astronomical  rea- 
sons, they  tell  us,  drawn  from  its  references  to  the  Nile 
inundations,  prevent  the  assigning  of  any  intermediate 
date.1 

Four  thousand  years  before  the  Christian  era!  It 
brings  us  back  to  the  very  childhood  of  civilization.  Yet 
as  between  this  and  2700,  the  student  of  literature  will 
have  little  hesitation  in  referring  the  manuscript  to  the 
year  4000.  We  have  other  tales  from  the  later  date,  the 
twelfth  dynasty,  elaborate,  smooth,  and  even  eloquent 
constructions,  primitive  but  rounded  works  of  art.  They 
differ  from  the  earlier  story  as  widely  as  do  the  polished 
novels  of  a  Thackeray  or  a  Tolstoi  from  the  crude  nar- 
ratives of  a  Malory  or  a  Maundeville.  The  "Westcar 
Papyrus"  contains  just  such  accounts  as  children  might 
tell.  That  is,  if  we  suppose  the  children  very  young  in 

Wide  Adolf  Erman,  "Der  Marchen  des  Papyrus  Westcar," 
Berlin,  1890,  Vol.  I,  p.  19  et  seq.  Vide  W.  F.  Petrie,  "Egyptian 
Tales,"  London,  1895,  Vol.  I,  p.  58  et  seq. 

30 


THE  EGYPTIAN  TALES 

intellect,  yet  very  old  in  the  ways  of  the  world,  fully  ac- 
quainted with  its  vices  and  its  vanities,  though  wholly  in- 
capable of  moralizing  thereon. 

Modern  scholars  have  named  these  quaint  old  narra- 
tives the  "Tales  of  the  Magicians."  In  them  the  sons  of 
King  Cheops  are  apparently  trying  to  amuse  their  father. 
One  of  the  sons  after  another  steps  forward  to  tell  the 
monarch  a  "strange  story." )  Our  only  and  most  precious 
manuscript  begins  with  the  closing  words  of  one  tale. 
Then  follow  two  of  the  sons'  stories  complete,  and  then 
the  opening  of  another  longer  one,  in  the  midst  of  which 
the  injured  papyrus  breaks  off.  Whether  originally  any 
larger  tale  connected  all  these  and  gave  them  a  vague 
unity,  it  is  impossible  to  say.  The  last  story  passes 
suddenly  into  action  on  the  part  of  King  Cheops, 
his  sons,  and  others  of  those  around  them.  It  seems 
to  become  contemporary  history,  and  then,  alas,  it  dis- 
appears. 

Technically,  every  part  of  the  stories  is  confused. 
There  is  no  clear  separation  marking  the  tales  within 
tales.  At  times  it  is  the  scribe,  the  actual  writer  of  the 
papyrus,  who  addresses  us  in  his  own  person.  At  times 
King  Cheops  speaks.  Then  again,  his  sons  carry  on  the 
narration;  or  yet  again  it  is  some  character  within  the 
tale.  Our  best  Egyptologists  approach  the  manuscript 
with  diffidence,  confess  they  can  not  always  discriminate 
the  speakers,  and  despair  of  their  own  interpretation  of 
doubtful  passages. 

Within  the  two  smaller  completed  tales,  however,  we 
move  with  some  security.  They  attain  a  certain  unity, 
through  the  fact  that  both  of  them,  and,  so  far  as  we  can 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

judge,  the  other  fragments  also,  appeal .alwaxs__and_solely 
to  the  passion  for  the  marvellous.  It  is  always  a  "strange 
thing"  that  King  Cheops  desires  to  hear,  and  for  which  he 
listens.  He  is  told  first  of  a  visit  paid  by  a  former  king  to 
the  "chief-reciter"  of  the  time.  In  the  monarch's  train 
is  a  page,  to  whom  the  wife  of  the  chief-reciter  is  at- 
tracted. A  rather  bald  intrigue  follows,  and  is  revealed 
to  the  husband  by  a  servant.  Then  the  chief-reciter  con- 
structs a  tiny  magic  crocodile  of  wax,  which  at  his  com- 
mand grows  huge  and  swallows  the  page.  The  magician, 
apparently  proud  of  the  situation,  invites  the  king  several 
days  later  to  see  this  crocodile,  makes  it  grow  small  and 
large  in  the  presence  of  the  monarch,  and  finally  produces 
the  page  unhurt.  The  king  marvels  much  at  the  power  of 
his  chief-reciter,  and  among  other  remarks,  but  not  at 
all  emphasized  above  the  rest,  he  bids  the  crocodile  keep 
its  prey.  He  then  confers  on  the  reciter  many  gifts. 
At  this  juncture  King  Cheops  reappears,  expresses  his 
wonder  also  at  the  tale,  and  orders  sacrifices  made 
in  honor  of  the  magician  and  of  the  king  who  honored 
him. 

In  the  second  tale,  a  king,  being  weary,  appeals  to  his 
chief-reciter,  who  suggests  with  many  details  that  the 
entire  court  might  enjoy  a  row  upon  a  lake.  This  is 
approved,  and  the  trip  described.  One  of  the  king's 
maidens  drops  a  ring  into  the  lake,  and  the  chief-reciter 
folds  back  the  waters  as  one  might  close  an  open  book, 
and  thus  regains  the  ring.  No  further  results  are  built 
upon  this  ring,  nor  indeed  upon  anything  else.  The  ma- 
gician is  given  high  honor,  and  King  Cheops  marvels  and 
orders  sacrifices  as  before.  In  the  third  and  unfinished 

32 


THE  EGYPTIAN  TALES 

tale,  the  severed  head  of  a  bull  is  reunited  to  the  body, 
and  the  animal  is  restored  to  life. 

Such  incidents  might,  of  course,  appear  in  any  story 
of  magic ;  but  the  point  is  that  here  they  are  not  incidents, 
they  are  the  centre  of  the  tale.  Round  them,  to  explain 
them,  mentioned  merely  to  give  reason  for  the  display 
of  the  one  infantile  marvel,  is  an  entire  and  to  us  strangely 
interesting  world.  The  vague,  accidental  background  re- 
veals a  complex  and  unknown  civilization,  wherein, 
grouped  in  disconnected  detail,  we  catch  glimpses  of  sin- 
ful women  and  lollipop  pages,  mincing  maidens  and  sati- 
ate kings. 

Back  of  this  appeal  to  wonder  as  the  interest  by  which 
the  story  was  expected  to  hold  its  audience,  the  teller's 
own  purpose  seems  also  fairly  clear.  He  did  more  than 
simply  try  to  interest  his  hearers,  he  aimed  to  impress 
them  with  the  dignity  of  his  own  art.  In  each  tale  the 
mighty  magician  is  the  "chief-reciter"  to  the  king  in 
whose  reign  the  events  are  placed.  Each  time  this  chief- 
reciter  is  highly  honored  by  the  king,  treated  almost  as  an 
equal.  He  is  the  triumphant  hero  of  the  story,  and  his 
enemies  fall  helpless  before  his  magic  art.  If  only  we 
writers  of  to-day  could  so  easily  convince  our  world  of 
our  superhuman  dignity  and  powers !  Moreover  the  tales 
are  narrated  as  grave  history.  The  monarch,  in  whose 
reign  each  took  place,  is  carefully  mentioned  with  all  his 
titles.  Here  is  craft  for  us  mingled  with  simplicity ;  wis- 
dom with  foolishness ;  worthy  of  the  oldest  story  in  the 
world.  One  doubts  if  a  finished  artist  of  to-day,  sitting 
down  to  imagine  an  "oldest  story,"  could  have  planned  it 
better. 

33 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

As  to  the  ancient  tale-teller's  method  of  making  clear 
his  appeal  and  driving  home  his  teaching,  the  work  is 
primitive  but  not  without  evidences  of  studied  art.  The 
opening  sentence  of  the  second  tale  is  plain  enough,  "I 
will  tell  of  a  wonder  that  happened  ...  by  the  deeds 
of  the  chief-reciter."  And  the  close  of  each  tale,  as  we 
have  seen,  represents  King  Cheops  ordering  that  sacrifice 
be  made  to  the  spirit  of  the  chief -reciter  involved,  "for  I 
have  seen  the  token  of  his  wisdom." 

While  the  scribe  thus  positively  indicated  the  appeal  at 
the  start,  and  emphatically  drew  his  desired  conclusion, 
he  had  little  conception  of  how  to  reach  his  effects  be- 
tween times.  There  is  none  of  the  increasing  intensity, 
the  stepping  upward  of  which  I  have  spoken.  The 
events  are  like  those  of  a  child's  tale,  scattered,  digres- 
sive, given  in  the  simplest  time  order,  and  failing  even 
to  master  that.  The  writer  constantly  repeats  himself 
where  repetition  is  most  useless,  a  mere  filling  up  of 
space.  He  seems  to  mention  whatever  comes  to  his  mind, 
important  or  trivial,  whether  bearing  on  his  central  won- 
der or  far  removed  from  it,  anything  in  fact  that  stand- 
ing by  itself  may  interest  the  hearer.  Plot  scarcely  ex- 
ists except  in  the  vague  sense  that  the  events  mentioned 
preceded,  though  they  did  not  cause  or  lead  up  to,  the 
work  of  magic.  Of  emotional  excitement,  there  is  none 
whatever.  No  faintest  suggestion  is  given  of  the  state 
of  mind  of  the  injured  husband,  the  detected  wife,  or 
the  devoured  and  redevoured  page.  They  are  dealt  with 
in  a  manner  wholly  objective,  and  go  through  their  parts 
like  so  many  automata  merely  that  the  crocodile  may 
appear. 

34 


THE  EGYPTIAN  TALES 

To  summarize,  therefore,  what  can  here  be  found  of 
the  six  elements,  to  what  extent  they  were  employed  at 

the  earliest  point  of  fiction  within  mod- 
Technique  ern  view: 

Beginning  ''  P/0^~not    recognized    as    a    unit. 

There  is  no  sequence  of  cause  and  effect, 
no  separation  of  incidents,  no  cumulative  intensity. 

2.  Motive — plainly  announced.  Verisimilitude  is  wholly 
rejected.    The  aim  of  the  tale  is  almost  directly  opposed 
to  the  portrayal  of   real  life;  it  seeks  to  astonish,  to 
present  marvels,  and  to  win  an  unearned  honor,  a  false 
reputation,  for  the  teller's  profession. 

3.  Character  portrayal — not  thought  of.    Figures  are 
shown  without  detail  and  only  as  the  eye  had  seen  them, 
not  as  the  heart  knew  them. 

4.  Emotional  excitement — none. 

5.  Background — wholly  accidental.     The  details  men- 
tioned slip  in  like  uncounted  chatter,  and  in  no  way  aid 
the  expression  of  the  point,  the  magic  climax  of  the  tale. 

6.  Style — very  crude.    It  shows  some  evidences  of  art 
and  even  of  formulae  for  opening  and  closing,  but  the 
writer  has  not  at  all  considered  the  general  form  of  the 
tale  nor  recognized  its  difficulties. 

Turning  from  the  "Westcar  Papyrus,"  the  next  oldest 
remnant  of  Egyptian  fiction  belongs  to  the  ninth  dynasty, 
say  roughly  about  the  year  3ipo_B.c.^ 
The  In  this  the  reader  at  once  becomes  con- 

ArtistkSkiH          Sci°US  °f  a  great  advance  in  art'  an  CX" 
tremely    self-conscious   art.     The   nar- 
rator tells  plainly  and  with  easy  simplicity  and  fullness 
the  details  of  how  a  peasant  or  "sekhti"  was  tricked  and 

35 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

robbed  by  the  servant  of  a  noble,  and  of  the  peasant's 
appeal  to  the  noble  for  justice.  Only  after  this  is  the 
real  intent  of  the  author  developed,  and  we  find  ourselves 
facing! an  evident  example  of  a  "purpose-story,"  that  is,  a 
story  which  is  only  one  by  courtesy,  a  mere  vehicle  for 
conveying  some  extraneous  idea.  The  author  of  the 
"sekhti"  manuscript  wrote  to  glorify  eloquence,  to  show 
the  value  of  his  own  art,  the  power  of  the  well-trained 
tongue.  He  actually  counts  on  winning  attention  not  by 
events  but  by  words. 

The  sekhti  approaches  the  noble  with  a  long  and  very 
flowery  speech.  As  soon  as  it  is  finished  some  explana- 
tions are  hurriedly  given  to  lead  on  to  another  similar  out- 
burst by  the  sekhti,  and  then  comes  another,  and  yet 
others  and  others.  Over  each  of  these  addresses  the 
author  lingers  with  elaborate  and  loving  art,  and  then 
scurries  hastily  to  the  next.  Never  was  a  story  more  ob- 
viously composed  as  a  mere  vehicle  for  fine  writing.  The 
noble  has  the  peasant's  speeches  copied  out  and  sent  to 
the  king,  that  his  majesty  may  enjoy  their  eloquence ;  and 
both  noble  and  king  deliberately  delay  justice  to  the 
sekhti  so  as  to  give  occasion  for  more  of  his  poetic 
entreaties  and  orations.  Nay,  they  even  have  him 
savagely  beaten  as  a  stimulus  to  further  efforts  of  his 
genius. 

The  close  of  the  tale  is  confused,  but  apparently  the 
king  amply  rewards  the  orator  for  all  he  has  endured. 
Kings  always  do  reward  the  hero  in  Egyptian  tales.  Ex- 
cept for  that,  there  is  not  a  marvel,  not  a  single  wonder 
in  the  whole. 

It  must  be  evident  that,  to  such  a  story,  plot  in  the  full 

36 


THE  EGYPTIAN  TALES 

sense  of  the  word  was  impossible.  Here  is  no  tracing  of 
human  causes  and  results.  The  writer  cares  absolutely 
nothing  for  such  things.  Probably  he  never  expected  any 
one  to  accept  the  event  as  actually  happening.  It  was  a 
fancy,  an  ideal.  Any  sympathy  with  the  peasant's  suffer- 
ings or  even  any  real  passion  on  the  sufferer's  part  would 
at  once  have  destroyed  all  interest  in  his  artificial  elo- 
quence. Yet  there  is  a  certain  unity  throughout,  a  unity 
not  elsewhere  found  in  Egyptian  tales,  and  arising  from 
the  author's  very  intensity  of  purpose,  his  steady  looking 
to  only  one  idea.  There  are  no  superfluous  incidents, 
because  the  writer  did  not  want  incidents  at  all.  He 
crowded  them  aside,  he  told  only  such  as  were  absolutely 
necessary. 

Neither  does  study  of  character  exist,  any  more  than  in 
the  "Tales  of  the  Magicians."  In  fact,  in  all  the  Egyptian 
stories,  the  characters  are  what  is  called  "plot  ridden," 
though  in  this  one  case  it  were  perhaps  better  to  call  them 
"purpose  ridden";  that  is  they  act  in  any  impossible  or 
inconsistent  way  necessary  to  produce  a  desired  situation. 
Here  the  eloquent  peasant,  his  friends,  and  his  enemies 
are,  without  explanation  and  apparently  without  realiza- 
tion, turned  about  in  any  contradictory  way  that  can  give 
the  author  opportunity  for  a  speech. 

To  the  student  of  literature  it  is  very  interesting  to  find 
fiction  so  early  reaching  this  stage  of  its  development. 
Here  is  obviously  a  notable  advance.  The  "art  of  the 
tongue"  has  been  recognized.  Its  power  is  proven  and 
admired.  This  was  the  natural  step  that  fiction  had  to 
take.  Like  man  himself,  it  had  to  become  self-conscious. 
It  had  to  think  of  itself  that  it  could  study  itself,  learn 

37 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

its  own  beauties  and  its  follies,  its  weaknesses  and  its 
power. 

But  before  we  smile  at  the  self-complacent  artist  with 
his  impossible  peasant  and  his  over-ornate  metaphors,  let 
us  look  back  at  our  own  Euphues,  or  abroad,  at  the 
chivalric  romances  whose  involved  love-arguments  and 
labored  compliments  turn  poor  Quixote's  brain.  "The 
reasonableness  of  the  unreason  with  which  you  overcome 
my  reasoning,  so  manifestly  weakens  my  reason,  that  I 
reasonably  lament  your  beauty."  It  is  evident,  and  indeed 
it  seems  but  natural,  that  all  arts  must  pass  through  this 
stage  of  false  pretentiousness.  Has  not  painting  done 
the  same?  And  poetry?  And  architecture?  Have  they 
all  passed  quite  beyond  it  even  yet?  Fiction,  like  the 
others,  when  first  waking  from  the  fresh  carelessness  of 
unformed  nature  and  realizing  that  it  is  an  art,  loses  it- 
self in  the  study  of  its  own  means,  the  love  of  its  own 
workmanship. 

If  we  now  pass  swiftly  over  a  thousand  years  or  more 

to  the  later  Egyptian  tales  of  about  the  nineteenth  dynasty, 

we  find  these  in  some  respects  much  ad- 

TheMost  vanced  over  their  predecessors.     They 

vance  are  iongerj  j.ney  are  far  more  involved, 

they  have  interwoven  threads.  In  this  at 
least  they  approach  nearer  to  the  novel.  Yet  in  some 
other  ways  their  art  seems  almost  to  have  stood  still.  The 
Egyptians  had  ceased  to  be  a  progressive  people. 

Perhaps  the  tale  that  comes  nearest  to  our  modern  con- 
ception of  a  completed  story  is  that  of  Prince  Stne.  This 
is  the  longest,  the  most  elaborate,  and  in  many  ways  the 
most  important  of  the  surviving  Egyptian  fragments.  In 

38 


THE  EGYPTIAN  TALES 

the  tale,  Stne  or  Setna,  to  follow  Professor  Petrie's  Eng- 
lish spelling,  appears  in  the  tomb  of  one  of  his  predeces- 
sors, having  apparently  entered  to  seize  a  magic  book; 
for,  where  the  surviving  manuscript  begins,  the  spirit 
wife  of  the  dead  king  is  warning  Setna  to  leave  the  book. 
She  tells  him  the  whole  story  of  her  life,  of  her  husband's 
magic  labors  to  secure  the  book,  and  of  how  it  led  to  both 
their  deaths.  Setna  still  persists,  and,  after  a  struggle  of 
magic  with  the  dead  king,  succeeds  in  carrying  off  his 
prize.  The  dead  king  then  sends  a  woman  to  entrap  the 
thief.  She  leads  Setna  into  endless  troubles  and  dis- 
asters, which  are  expanded  at  some  length.  Setna  at  last 
realizes  that  he  is  inferior  to  his  enemy  in  power,  and 
brings  back  the  magic  book.  The  dead  king  then  com- 
mands him  to  find  and  transfer  to  the  tomb  the  body  of 
the  king's  spirit  wife,  which  has  been  interred  in  another 
city.  After  considerable  labor  Setna  accomplishes  this 
mission,  and  the  tale  is  over. 

The  method  of  this  story  is  still,  as  in  the  earlier  ones, 
wholly  objective;  and  the  emotional  intensity  one  would 
naturally  expect  in  many  of  the  situations  is  only  ex- 
pressed in  the  baldest  way,  as,  for  example,  "Then  Setna 
was  afraid  and  fled."  Yet  we  can  see  that  as  a  whole  the 
tale  approaches  somewhat  to  our  modern  conception  of 
unity  of  plot,  and  perhaps  that  conception  will  be  made 
clearer  by  pointing  out  just  where  the  Setna  story  fails 
of  reaching  it.  This  is  an  account  either  of  the  living 
prince  or  of  the  dead  king.  If  it  is  the  latter,  as  indeed  it 
comes  nearest  to  being,  then  the  entire  and  lengthy  series 
of  episodes  between  Setna  and  the  magic  woman  who 
beguiles  him  should  be  left  out.  They  have  no  value  for 

39 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

the  dead  king ;  on  the  contrary,  they  quite  lead  us  to  for- 
get him.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  this  is  the  tale  of  Setna, 
then  all  the  long  story  of  the  spirit  wife  should  be 
abridged ;  and  the  ending  is  wrong,  for  it  is  the  close  of 
her  career,  not  his.  Or,  if  we  call  it  the  tale  of  the  magic 
book,  then  it  should  end  when  Setna  restores  that  to  its 
place.  The  interest  for  the  reader  is  switched  abruptly 
from  one  to  another  of  these  themes  while  the  others  dis- 
appear. There  is  amid  the  parts  an  utter  disjointedness 
only  fully  to  be  realized  by  reading  them. 

Why  did  not  the  Egyptian  scribe  see  these  points,  and 
make  his  tale  of  one  sort  or  the  other  ?  The  answer  seems 
obviously  enough  to  be  that  he  was  not  telling  of  any  of 
these  things  or  persons  in  particular.  Human  emotion, 
human  life,  was  not  his  theme.  He  was,  Irke  his  "prede- 
cessors, telling  of  "strange  things,"  and  it  was  by  their 
strangSSesT  that  he  expected  to  hold  his  audience. 
Whether  the  events  happened  to  one  person  or  another 
made  little  difference.  The  characters  might  have  all  died 
or  disappeared  and  been  replaced  by  new  ones,  and  still 
the  tale  go  on — an  accident  which  actually  happens  in  the 
similar  story  of  Bata  and  his  transformations. 

The  story  of  Bata  is  more  widely  known  to  the  general 
public  than  any  other  of  the  Egyptian  fictions,  and  per- 
haps  from  the  general   public's   stand- 
TheMost  point,  it  is  best  worth  knowing.     Like 

Famous  ^  ^^^  Q{  ^  Magicians;'  it  exists 

in  only  a  single  manuscript ;  but  this  has 
been  longer  known.  It  was  purchased  for  the  British 
Museum  in  1857,  and  since  then  several  Egyptologists  of 
note  have  offered  us  translations  of  its  hieroglyphics.  Its 

40 


THE  EGYPTIAN  TALES 

opening  is  notably  different  from  anything  in  the  other 
tales.  Bata  is  a  peasant,  and  the  simple  details  of  his 
peasant  life  are  dwelt  on  as  though  the  scribe  took  genu- 
ine pleasure  in  them.  That  is  to  say,  the  tone  of  the 
earlier  passages  is  idyllic.  Bata's  toil  in  the  fields  is  de- 
scribed, his  going  out  and  returning  home,  his  loving  care 
of  the  cattle.  The  beasts  inform  him  where  the  best  pas- 
tures are,  and  he  takes  them  there,  so  that  they  grow 
fat  and  strong. 

This  incident  of  the  cattle  brings  us  to  a  very  interest- 
ing point.  To  substitute  for  a  hieroglyphic  a  modern 
word  which  expresses  its  general  significance,  has  become 
a  fairly  easy  matter ;  but  we  must  often  despair  of  decid- 
ing just  exactly  the  idea  which  the  symbol  conveyed  to  an 
ancient  Egyptian's  mind.  Mr.  Griffith's  translation  indi- 
cates that  the  cattle  spoke  to  Bata.  M.  Maspero  thinks 
we  come  nearer  to  the  Egyptian  sense  if  we  say  they 
"made  him  understand."1  The  one  idea  keeps  us  in  the 
old  world  of  magic— telling  "strange  things."  The  other 
brings  us  to  a  far  more  modern  and  delicate  picture  of 
the  peasant's  real  sympathy  with  and  comprehension  of 
the  dumb  brutes  he  tends.  It  lends  the  final  touch  to  the 
idyllic  simplicity  of  the  opening  of  the  tale. 

Bata  lives  with  his  elder  brother,  and  the  story  runs 
along  the  lines  of  the  Bible  narrative  of  Joseph  and 
Potiphar's  wife.  The  brother,  to  avenge  his  fancied 
wrongs,  hides  behind  the  cowshed  door  to  slay  Bata  as  he 
drives  in  the  cattle;  but  again  the  beasts  speak  to  their 
attendant,  each  one  as  it  enters  warning  him  of  the  hid- 

Wide  "Les  Contes  Populaires  de  L'Egypte  Ancienne,"  Paris, 
1882,  p.  8  et  seq. 

41 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

den  foe.  Here  again  the  slow  dawning  of  the  idea  on 
Data's  mind  from  their  successive  speeches  suggests  the 
other  translation,  that  not  by  articulate  words  but  by  their 
actions  his  dumb  friends  "made  him  understand." 

He  flees,  is  pursued  by  his  brother;  and  now  the  tale 
throws  off  all  its  opening  simplicity  and  becomes  the  usual 
catalogue  of  marvels.  A  river  full  of  alligators  gapes 
between  the  brothers.  The  guilty  wife  is  slain.  Bata  be- 
comes a  hermit,  and  the  gods  make  him  a  spirit  wife. 
Bata  is  slain  at  her  instigation.  She  becomes  the  favorite 
of  the  king.  Bata  is  magically  resurrected  by  his  brother, 
who  then  passes  out  of  the  tale,  while  Bata  goes  through 
endless  transformations,  in  each  of  which  his  former  wife 
seeks  his  destruction.  Finally  she  succeeds.  A  son  is 
born  to  her,  and  having  grown  up  becomes  king.  He 
then  declares  himself  a  reincarnation  of  Bata;  and  the 
former  favorite,  first  his  wife  and  afterward  his  mother, 
is  "judged"  by  him.  The  punishment  inflicted  is  left  to 
be  understood,  though  this  frequently  recurring  symbol 
"judged"  seems  to  imply  the  death  sentence.  For  the 
sake  of  our  common  human  nature,  let  us  hope  the  judg- 
ment took  a  milder  form. 

What  are  we  to  argue  from  this  tale?  One  or  two 
new  lines  of  technique  seem  to  appear.  Perhaps  it  has 
a  moral  purpose;  persecuted  innocence  finally  triumphs 
over  its  assailants.  Yet  on  the  whole  Bata  is  far  too  pow- 
erful for  persecuted  innocence;  he  is  more  like  a  god, 
against  whom  enemies  plot  in  vain.  He  foresees  the 
future ;  magic  makes  him  an  easy  victor. 

So,  too,  in  the  early  part  of  the  tale  we  have  perhaps 
an  attempt  at  an  appeal  to  something  other  in  man's  na- 

42 


THE  EGYPTIAN  TALES 

ture  than  his  appetite  for  marvels.  The  author  for  a 
moment  seems  to  touch  real  poetry,  to  expect  his  readers 
to  enjoy  the  simple  beauty  of  the  simplest  forms  of  life 
and  labor.  Possibly,  however,  it  is  only  our  modern  fancy 
that  infuses  these  feelings  into  passages  where  the  scribe's 
real  purpose  was  but  to  draw  a  contrast  with  the  hero's 
final  greatness. 

Considering  these  later  tales  as  a  whole,  they  no  longer 
possess  the  plain-spoken  simplicity  with  which  the  earlier 
writers  indicated  their  underlying  ef- 
*°f;  "Honor  the  chief-reciter,"  "Be- 
Story  Building  in  hold  the  beauty  of  eloquence."  In  fact 
Egypt  one  doubts  whether  the  later  scribes 

made  any  effort,  except  the  obvious  pro- 
fessional one  of  pleasing.  If  they  had  really  some  deeper 
intent,  the  faintness  of  our  knowledge  of  their  times  pre- 
vents us  from  detecting  it. 

When  we  search  for  unity  of  plot,  or  indeed  for  any 
clear  conception  of  what  plot  means,  we  find  ourselves 
disappointed.  There  is  not  one  among  the  later  tales 
which  reaches  even  to  the  barren  singleness  of  the  story 
of  the  sekhti.  The  moment  an  Egyptian  story  becomes 
lengthy,  it  becomes  heterogeneous.  The  fragments  fall 
apart.  They  are  different,  incoherent,  sometimes  almost 
antipathetic. 

The  method  of  appeal  remains  the  same  as  in  the  earli- 
est legends.  It  is  still  man's  appetite  for  the  marvellous 
that  is  being  fed,  though  the  supernatural  exhibitions  are 
far  more  intricate,  more  subtle  and  mysterious  than  the 
simple  matter  of  the  wax  crocodile.  Moreover,  they  are 
much  more  numerous  to  the  tale,  scattered  with  a  liberal 

43 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

hand  and  a  practised  fancy.  Some  of  the  narratives 
show  also  that  a  second  and  different  method  of  exciting 
wonder  had  been  originated.  Men  travel  into  strange 
lands,  and  bring  thence  accounts  of  things  not  necessarily 
magical,  but  merely  beyond  the  experience  of  their  neigh- 
bors. Fiction  thus  takes  its  first  vague  turn  toward  veri- 
similitude; it  seems  approaching  what  Professor  Mat- 
thews has  declared  to  be  its  earliest  advance — from  the 
impossible  to  the  merely  improbable.1 

To  summarize,  therefore,  once  again,  we  have  in  the 
latest  Egyptian  fiction: 

1.  Plot — partly  conceived.     There  are  slightly  inter- 
weaving threads,  but  these  break  off ;  characters  are  sud- 
denly abandoned ;  there  is  no  unity  and  no  progression  of 
incident. 

2.  Motive — more  complex  than  in  the  earlier   tales. 
There  is  possibly  a  first  vague  striving  for  verisimilitude. 
The  tale  still  seeks  to  amaze  rather  than  convince,  yet 
perhaps  the  author  looks  faintly  to  a  higher  truth,  has  be- 
gun an  attempt  to  teach. 

3.  Character  portrayal — none. 

4.  Emotional  excitement — faintly  suggested   in   some 
stories,  rather  effectively  depicted  early  in  the  Bata  tale, 
but  wholly  forgotten  in  the  latter  part. 

5.  Background — perhaps     intentionally    brought    out 
early  in  the  Bata  tale,  not  elsewhere. 

6.  Style — always  objective,  but  undramatic,  elaborate, 
often  poetic,  but  running  markedly  to  the  use  of  formulae 
of  expression,  hence  stiff.2 

Wide  "The  Historical  Novel,"  1901,  p.  102. 

'It  must  not  be  supposed  that  it  was  only  in  Egypt  that  fiction 

44 


THE  EGYPTIAN  TALES 

found  congenial  soil.  The  drama  and  even  the  poetic  form  itself 
have  been  overlooked  by  some  races  in  their  literary  advance ;  but 
the  fictitious  tale  has  too  universal  a  root,  is,  as  we  have  seen,  too 
integral  a  part  of  man,  to  fail  of  cultivation.  No  race  so  poor 
but  has  its  fantasies  and  romances!  The  Chinese  knew  fiction 
early;  indeed,  the  first  and  most  sacred  of  all  their  books,  the 
Yi  King  or  Book  of  Changes,  so  old  that  Confucius  himself  failed 
fully  to  understand  it,  whose  author  is  a  mythical  Fuh-hi,  and 
whose  date  has  been  doubtfully  guessed  at  2852  B.  c.,  is  perhaps 
of  this  nature.  Traces  of  intentional  romance  may  be  found  too 
in  the  oldest  of  the  sacred  books  of  the  Hindus — boastful  battle- 
songs,  the  wooing  of  a  nymph  by  her  lover.  These  date  from 
about  1500  B.  c.,  while  the  later  Hindu  books,  the  great  epics  of 
the  Mahabharata  and  the  Ramayana,  still  far  antedating  the 
Christian  era,  are  barely  masqued  fiction  of  the  broadest  type.  In 
the  Ramayana  the  hero  leads  an  army  of  monkeys  to  battle;  one 
of  them,  with  tail  of  fire,  runs  with  magic  speed  over  the  enemy's 
country  and  sets  it  everywhere  aflame.  Men  slay  armies ;  women 
receive  the  gift  of  eternal  youth  and  beauty.  The  demon  king 
stills  wave  and  wind  with  his  frown.  This  is,  perhaps,  the  highest 
type  of  fiction  so  early  encountered.  There  is  a  suggestion  of  a 
double  meaning  running  all  through  it.  It  is  allegory  as  well  as 
fiction.  So,  too,  are  the  beast  fables.  To  whatever  country  we 
assign  these,  and  whether  their  author  be  Pilpai,  Bidpay,  ^Esop, 
Lokman  or  some  older,  forgotten  scribe,  they  are  an  important 
part  of  pre-Christian  fiction.  The  Hindus  claim  them  as  a  natural 
growth  from  the  laws  of  Manu;  but  the  subject  is  too  wide  for 
discussion  here. 


45 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE  GREEK  ROMANCES 

Earliest  Along  some  of  the  lines  whose  develop- 

Traces  of  ment  iea(js  to  the  novel,  the  Greek  ro- 

mances present  considerable  advance. 
On  other  lines,  however,  the  progress  is  so  slight  as  to 
be  rather  surprising.  The  Greeks,  who  made  such 
tremendous  advances  in  art,  who  in  the  drama,  the  form 
most  closely  approaching  the  novel,  arrived  at  such  com- 
plete though  perhaps  instinctive  appreciation  of  the  uni- 
ties and  other  points  of  technique — these  artists  failed  to 
apply  their  analytic  power  to  the  novel. 

Fiction  remained  the  least  developed  of  Grecian  arts. 
The  Greek  mind  of  the  true  classic  period  seems  to  have 
rejected  it  altogether,  as  trivial.  Romance  to  win  a  hear- 
ing had  to  appear  as  handmaid  to  her  sister  arts  of  poetry 
and  oratory,  to  assume  the  guise  of  history  as  in  Homer, 
or  of  religion,  as  in  Hesiod.  Stories,  told  simply  for  their 
value  as  stories,  and  especially  prose  stories,  do  not  ap- 
pear at  all  until  the  post-classic  period,  and  then  they  step 
forward  in  a  form  almost  infantile  when  compared  with 
the  splendor  of  the  other  arts  of  Greece. 

Even  the  Milesian  tales,  trifles  apparently  very  short 
and  very  broad,  are  not  referred  to  as  existing  before  the 
year  54  B.  c.,  though  their  composition  probably  began 
a  couple  of  centuries  earlier.  A  fragment  of  a  romance 
about  Nimrod  of  Babylon  has  been  recently  discovered, 


THE  GREEK  ROMANCES 

dating  from  the  beginning  of  the  Christian  era ;  but  there 
is  not  enough  of  this  to  serve  as  a  groundwork  for  any 
very  positive  conclusions.  To  the  writer  it  seems  much 
more  Eastern  than  Greek,  like  a  descendant  of  the 
Egyptian  tales  translated  into  the  dominant  tongue. 

The  first  Grecian  tale,  presented  simply  as  a  tale,  of 
which  the  present  age  can  speak  with  any  positiveness  is 
The  the  "Dinias  and  Dercyllis"  of  Antonius  j 

Oldest  Diogenes    (circa    150    A.    D.),    though  v 

Romance  even  this  is  known  only  from  its  abridg- 

ment in  the  "Myriobiblion"  of  Photius. 
Antonius  Diogenes  claims  to  have  gathered  much  of  his 
material  from  earlier  writers,  and  indeed  the  story  has 
obviously  behind  it  a  long  ancestry,  toward  which  the 
student  gazes  with  vain  and  unappeasable  curiosity.  He 
only  catches  glimpses  of  a  feeble  Greek  fiction  emerging 
as  by  accident  from  Grecian  decadence. 

Even  at  this  late  period  of  Greek  life  romance  appears 
to  be  still  in  its  infancy.  "Dinias  and  Dercyllis"  enables 
us  to  pick  up  the  development  of  plot  and  verisimilitude 
at  almost  the  point  where  the  Egyptians  left  them.  It  is 
a  narrative  of  magical  adventures  and  marvellous  travel- 
lings "beyond  Thule"  and  in  the  sun  and  moon.  It  still 
appeals  to  wonder  as  its  source  of  interest,  and  describes 
wholly  impossible  things  to  a  people  who  had  as  yet  no 
scientific  conception  of  the  limits  set  by  the  strict  laws  of 
Nature. 

Love,  which,  except  for  the  incident  of  Setna  and  his 
temptress,  had  remained  a  wholly  subordinate  detail  in 
the  Egyptian  galaxy  of  the  marvellous,  begins  to  be  more 
important,  though  still  a  minor  matter.  It  is  used,  rather 

47 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

stiffly,  to  connect  the  two  chief  characters ;  but  the  hero, 
Dinias,  has  his  set  of  travels  and  adventures  entirely 
apart  from  those  of  the  lady,  Dercyllis,  whom  he  meets 
in  his  wanderings  and  leaves  again.  Nevertheless,  in  all 
Greek  fiction  the  story  is  of  the  two,  not  the  one.  The 
Egyptians  told  of  the  man,  the  Greeks  of  the  man  and 
woman.  This  is  more  than  a  mere  technical  advance,  it 
marks  a  change  in  the  conception  of  life  itself.  It  testifies 
to  at  least  some  vague  beginning  of  "emotional  excite- 
ment," and  justifies  our  calling  the  Greek  stories  "ro- 
mances," whereas  those  of  Egypt  were  only  "tales." 

The  mechanism  by  which  the  narrative  is  carried  on 
has  become  much  more  artificial,  if  not  more  artful,  than 
among  the  Egyptians.  The  "chief-reciters"  simply  spoke 
out  their  own  inventions.  It  never  occurred  to  them  to 
guarantee  the  truth  of  the  narrative,  to  explain  how  they 
personally  came  to  know  of  the  events  described.  But 
the  Greek  author  has  no  official  position  as  a  "reciter"; 
he  must  justify  his  right  to  speak.  In  this  first  story, 
Dinias  is  supposed  to  dictate  the  endless  series  of  his 
wanderings  to  a  friend,  who  incloses  the  record  in  the 
hero's  tomb,  where  it  is  discovered  by  the  soldiers  of 
Alexander  the  Great,  and  passed  down  through  the  gen- 
erations to  the  author,  Antonius.  In  short,  the  Greek 
novelists  realized  the  great  advantage  to  be  gained  by 
telling  a  tale  in  the  first  person.  They  overlooked,  how- 
ever, or  else  disapproved,  the  simple  and  frankly  artificial 
modern  style  where  the  author  poses  as  being  his  own 
hero  and  in  this  guise  speaks  directly  to  his  public.  The 
Greeks  employed  instead  an  elaborate  machinery.  Char- 
acter after  character  is  introduced  into  the  tales  simply 


THE  GREEK  ROMANCES 

as  a  sort  of  ancient  phonograph,  listening  open-mouthed 
to  the  hero's  narrative  of  his  own  heroic  deeds,  and  then 
recording  the  words  for  the  benefit  of  other  friends. 

As  to  the  unity  of  plot,  there  is  none,  nor  apparently 
had  any  method  of  arranging  incidents  dawned  upon  the 
author,  except  the  primeval  one  of  following  the  strict 
time  order.  This  makes  the  complicated  series  of  narra- 
tives become  almost  hopelessly  involved.  Dinias  starts 
his  tale  where  he  himself  leaves  home,  and  he  continues 
his  adventures  until  he  meets  Dercyllis;  then  he  branches 
off  into  what  she  had  told  him  of  her  wanderings,  in  the 
midst  of  which  she  had  met  her  brother,  an  interruption 
which  of  course  demanded  that  the  brother  should  tell  his 
story,  and  then  came  others  within  that.  Thus  the  nar- 
rative reaches  the  fourth,  or  even  higher,  degrees  of  in- 
volution. As  each  story  is  completed,  the  next  larger  one 
is  resumed,  and  so  at  last  we  return  to  the  unwearied 
Dinias,  who  promptly  resumes  his  own  almost  forgotten 
adventures,  dismisses  Dercyllis  to  her  home  and  con- 
tinues, perhaps  with  a  certain  amount  of  relief,  his  more 
personal  wanderings.  The  author  does  not,  however,  wholly 
forget  the  heroine ;  for  it  is  when  Dinias  finally  visits  and 
weds  her  at  her  home  in  Tyre  that  the  narrative  stops. 

The  fact  that  this  story  survives  only  in  an  abridgment 
prevents  us  from  estimating  with  any  accuracy  the  real 
amount  of  emotion  involved;  but  this  seems  to  be  very 
slight.  Dercyllis  and  her  brother  are  indeed  terrified  by 
a  mistaken  fear  that  they  have  slain  their  parents ;  but 
the  fear  seems  only  emphasized  as  an  excuse  for  their 
flight  and  wanderings;  their  grief  is  scarcely  noted. 
Dinias  is  said  to  love  Dercyllis,  but  he  obviously  loves 

49 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

adventure  far  more.  As  to  character  study  or  develop- 
ment, there  is  none  whatever.  Dinias  is  any  man, 
Dercyllis  any  maiden.  Their  minds  seem  quite  unchanged 
by  their  {umufiuous  experiences,  and  at  the  close  of  their 
adventures  they  might,  had  author  and  reader  not  been 
both  awearied,  have  begun  their  travels  all  over  again  in 
the  same  spirit. 

A  summary,  therefore,  of  this  earliest  remnant  of 
Greek  fiction  would  stand  somewhat  as 
Technique  in  the    follows : 

i.  Plot — faintly  conceived  as  a  thin 
Romance 

thread  holding  together  various  adven- 
tures, but  having  no  importance  and  no  value  whatever 
as  showing  cause  and  consequence. 

2.  Motive — none  clearly  indicated  except  the  desire  to 
interest.    Verisimilitude  is  openly  rejected,  dead  folk  are 
brought  to  life  again,  magic  appears  at  every  turn.  Hear- 
ers, it  seems,  were  still  listening  for  "strange  things," 
not  truth.     Professor  Warren  suggests  that  a  lesson  is 
perhaps  being  preached — "girls  should  stay  at  home." 
But  if  so,  it  is  very  unconvincingly  announced. 

3.  Character  portrayal — none. 

4.  Emotional     excitement — presumably     existent     (a 
Greek  familiar   with  Greek  lyric  and  drama  could  scarce 
have  overlooked  it)  but  not  made  prominent,  and  cer- 
tainly not  cumulative. 

5.  Background — the   abridgment   has    none,   but    the 
original  tale  probably  gave  this  much  attention.     Later 
Greek  tales  do  so,  and  this  one  is  markedly  a  traveller's 
account  of  other  lands. 

6.  Style — finer  points  unmeasurable  in  an  abridgment, 

50 


THE  GREEK  ROMANCES 

but  the  general  arrangement  very  crude  in  its  involution 
and  complicated  machinery. 

The  first  of  the  Greek  novelists  who  adopted  Horace's 
dictum  to  plunge  into  the  midst  of  the  action,  the  first, 

The  Most  ^at  1S*  t0  ac*aP*  to  ^e  novel  tne  tech- 

Famous  of  the  nique  which  its  sister  arts  of  literature 
Greek  Romances  had  already  learned,  was  apparently  that 
uncertain  Heliodorus,  who  may  or  may 
not  have  been  the  well-known  bishop  of  Tricca  in  Thes- 
saly.  At  any  rate,  a  Heliodorus  wrote  "Theagenes  and 
Chariclea,"  the  best  and  most  famous  of  the  surviving 
Greek  romances.  The  tale  steps  suddenly  and  dramati- 
cally into  its  action — if  anything  can  be  called  sudden  in 
those  interminably  prolix  narratives.  The  hero,  The- 
agenes, lies  wounded  in  the  arms  of  his  beloved  Chariclea. 
They  have  just  been  shipwrecked,  and  around  them  lie 
the  corpses  of  a  whole  band  of  the  robbers  of  the  in- 
hospitable coast.  These,  we  learn,  had  fought  among 
themselves  for  the  possession  of  Chariclea,  until  only  a 
few  were  left,  whom  Theagenes  had  managed  to  dispatch. 
He  had  been  wounded  in  the  encounter,  and  now  there 
appears  a  fresh  band  of  robbers  to  carry  off  the  helpless 
lovers.  This  much  is  told  in  the  author's  own  person,  but 
soon  afterward  the  regular  machinery  is  introduced. 
Calasiris,  an  aged  companion  of  the  lovers,  has  escaped 
the  shipwreck ;  and,  to  give  him  ample  leisure,  he  escapes 
the  pirates  as  well.  He  then  patiently  begins  to  narrate  to 
a  chance  listener  the  entire  history  of  his  own  affairs  and 
those  of  Theagenes  and  Chariclea,  from  their  births.  Other 
narratives  intrude,  and  soon  we  are  almost  as  deep  in  com- 
plications and  detached  episodes  as  in  the  earlier  works. 

51 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

Yet  despite  these  intricacies  Heliodorus  had  some  con- 
ception of  giving  a  connected  story.  His  lovers  do  not 
wander  aimlessly,  as  did  Dinias,  through  utterly  aimless 
adventures.  Having  been  separated,  they  struggle  con- 
stantly to  find  each  other,  and  when  at  last  they  escape 
all  persecution  and  are  happily  united,  the  tale  ends. 
Moreover,  Heliodorus  offers  our  earliest  example  of  in- 
trigue, as  distinguished  from  plot. 

By  intrigue,  as  has  been  previously  said,  is  meant  some 
secrei'within  the  story,  carefully  involved  and  hidden 
Trom  some  oi  the  characters  if  not  from  the  reader.  This 
mystery  has  usually  the  twofold  purpose  of  letting  the 
reader  puzzle  over  it  as  he  proceeds,  and  then  of  estab- 
lishing  the  denouement  by  its  solution  in  the  end.  Only 
the  latter  object  is  attempted  in  "Theagenes  and  Char- 
iclea."  There  is  a  birth  secret  about  the  heroine;  but  it 
is  frankly  told  the  reader,  and  is  only  employed  in  the 
end,  when  its  sudden  revelation  saves  the  lovers  from 
execution — though  the  rescue  can  scarcely  be  considered 
a  surprise,  for  Greek  readers  of  romance  must  long  be- 
fore have  grown  assured  that  their  heroes  and  heroines 
never  died  beyond  recall.  It  would  have  been  unprofes- 
sional. 

The  mere  thread  of  a  connected  story  is  to  be  found 
in  Jamblichus,  an  earlier  writer ;  but  it  is  Heliodorus  who 
seems  first  to  have  conceived  his  story  as  a  whole,  and 
not  as  a  mere  succession  of  marvellous  adventures  and 
escapes  on  the  part  of  any  character  who  chances  to  enter 
into  the  narrator's  brain. 

With  this  growing  sense  of  unity,  there  comes  also  an 
increased  emphasis  given  to  the  emotional  side  of  the 

52 


THE  GREEK  ROMANCES 

work.  Heliodorus  really  hoped  to  interest  readers  as 
much  by  love  and  pity  as  by  wonder.  He  no  longer  wrote 
for  utterly  childish  gapers  after  marvels ;  he  appealed  to 
hearts  as  well  as  eyes.  His  audience  might  still  stare, 
but  they  also  felt.  Love,  base  or  noble,  is  made  the  dom- 
inant motive  of  several  characters.  Affection  holds  sway 
over  others,  or  revenge,  or  gratitude. 

The  background  is  elaborately  worked  in,  employed 
even  with  a  recognition  of  its  technical  purpose  and  sub- 
ordinate position.  In  this  connection  there  appears  in 
the  third  book  of  "Theagenes  and  Chariclea"  the  earliest 
of  those  self-conscious  expressions  of  opinion  about  the 
narrator's  art,  the  first  of  those  deliberate  analyses  of  its 
own  technique  of  which  more  modern  fiction  has  become 
so  fond.  "  'When  the  ceremony  was  over,  and  the  pro- 
cession had  passed  by/  continued  Calasiris — 'But/  said 
Cnemon,  interrupting  him,  'the  ceremony  is  not  over, 
Father ;  you  have  not  made  me  a  spectator  of  the  proces- 
sion, whereas  I  am  very  desirous  both  of  hearing  and  see- 
ing ;  you  treat  me  like  a  guest,  who,  as  they  say,  is  come 
a  day  after  the  feast :  why  should  you  just  open  the  the- 
atre, only  to  close  it  again?' — 'I  was  unwilling/  said 
Calasiris,  'to  detain  you  from  what  you  are  most  desirous 
to  know,  by  a  detail  which  has  little  or  nothing  to  do  with 
the  principal  end  of  my  narration ;  but  since  you  must  be 
a  passing  spectator  ...  I  will  endeavor  briefly  to  de- 
scribe the  exhibition  to  you ;  and  I  shall  do  so  the  more 
willingly,  on  account  of  the  consequences  which  followed 
it.'  "l  Then  follow  several  pages  of  mere  description- 
background  with  a  vengeance. 

Wide  Rowland  Smith's  translation  "Greek  Romances" 
(Bohn,  1855),  p.  62. 

53 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

So,  too,  the  hero  and  heroine,  while  plot-ridden  and 
really  characterless,  are  at  least  elaborately  pictured.  "I 
think  I  see  them,"  says  a  listener  to  the  talkative  Calasiris, 
"in  your  living  description."1  But  it  was  only  the  out- 
side, the  physical  outlines  that  he  had  been  made  to 
see. 

One  further  bit  of  development  almost  reached  by 
Heliodorus  is  fully  attained  by  his  followers.  They  en- 

_      ,  ,  tirely  abandon  the  use  of  magic.    Audi- 

Development  and         J 
Decay  of  the          ences  have  become  scientists,  or  at  least 

Later  Work  most  suspicious  critics.      They  will  be- 

lieve only  natural  occurrences,  though 
these  still  continue  to  be  so  stupendously  improbable  that 
to  the  modern  mind  the  increase  of  possibility  is  infin- 
itesimal. 

The  author  of  "Dinias  and  Dercyllis,"  desiring  his 
heroine  temporarily  dead,  killed  her  without  any  hesita- 
tion, and  brought  her  to  life  again  by  magic.  So,  too,  the 
Egyptians  had  treated  death  as  a  mere  incident,  not  a 
finality.  Achilles  Tatius,  most  celebrated  of  the  followers 
of  Heliodorus,  dares  not  so  easily  dispose  of  an  incon- 
venient lady.  He  has  his  heroine  slain  only  in  appear- 
ance. Her  body  is  ripped  open  by  foes  in  full  sight  of  the 
hero.  But  in  anticipation  of  just  such  a  remarkable  at- 
tack, she  has  been  secretly  supplied  by  friends  with  a 
bladder  of  blood,  which  the  foes  by  mistake  rip  open  in- 
stead of  her  body.  She  is  then  carried  away ;  and  no  one 
is  so  unkind  as  to  deprive  the  hero  of  his  picturesque 
lamentations  by  explaining  to  him  the  nature  of  the  little 
comedy.  Later,  in  the  same  tale,  a  girl  marvellously  re- 

1Vide  Smith's  "Greek  Romances."  p.  66. 

54 


THE  GREEK  ROMANCES 

sembling  the  heroine  in  face  and  figure  is  dressed  in  her 
clothes  and  slain,  "for  truly"  this  time,  in  the  hero's  path 
for  his  private  edification.  How  poor  Achilles  Tatius 
must  have  racked  his  brain  for  these  expedients,  envied 
the  earlier  artist's  easy  path,  and  bemoaned  his  own  hard 
lot  that  had  fallen  on  such  an  exacting  age ! 

With  this  vague  approach  toward  verisimilitude,  to- 
ward human  life  and  a  merely  human  story,  came  the  con- 
stant weakening  of  wonder  and  adventure  and  the  sub- 
stitution of  love  as  the  basis  of  appeal  to  the  reader.  This 
emotional  strengthening  and  unifying  of  the  work  brings 
us  steadily  nearer  to  the  conception  of  unity  of  plot.  By 
the  time  we  reach  the  fifth  century  of  our  era,  we  find 
Longus  making  love  the  one  essential  element  of  a  com- 
paratively brief  romance. 

Longus,  if  that  be  indeed  his  name,  seems  to  have  cre- 
ated the  pastoral.  His  "Loves  of  Daphnis  and  Chloe" 
discards  wonder  except  as  an  adornment,  discards  adven- 
ture even,  and  dwells  almost  solely  for  its  interest  on  the 
wakening  and  satisfying  of  the  love  instinct  in  these  two 
young  peasants  among  their  sheepfolds. 

Can  man  never  mount  a  hobby  but  he  rides  it  to  the 
death  ?  He  had  discovered  one  of  the  novel's  essentials — 
passion,  emotional  excitement.  In  love  he  had  a  central 
interest  to  replace  the  waning  appetite  for  the  marvellous. 
Instantly  he  hurried  his  new  mount  on,  exaggerated, 
burlesqued  it— unintentionally  enough— till  it  failed  from 
under  him.  The  Greek  romances  after  Longus  dwindled, 
as  did  all  things  Grecian,  to  decadence  and  final  extinc- 
tion, without  originality,  without  power,  clinging  des- 
perately to  that  one  talisman,  love,  which  toward  the  last 

55 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

was  become  hopelessly  perverted  and  misunderstood. 
"Hysminias  and  Hysmene,"  perhaps  the  most  notable  of 
these  closing  attempts,  is  almost  pathetic  in  its  feeble  fu- 
tility. The  heroine  makes  all  the  love  and  runs  all  the 
risks,  while  the  hero  protests,  laughs  at  her  languidly,  and 
sleeps — sleeps  in  positions  whose  excitement  would  seem 
irresistible.  One  could  almost  suspect  the  author  of  a 
parody  on  his  own  degenerate  art:  the  protest  against 
what  the  world  demanded  to  read,  the  languid  laugh  that 
they  could  still  believe  love  was  such  as  this,  and  then — 
the  sleep.  With  that  laugh  and  that  sleep,  Greek  romance 
faded  fittingly  and  decorously  from  life's  stage. 

In    running    thus    rapidly   through    the    later    Greek 

romances,  I  have  drawn  attention  mainly  to  their  points 

of  difference   from  the  modern  novel, 

Attainments  of  that  is'  tO  thdr  lack  °f  Unity  °F  trUC  ?lot' 
Ancient  ^eir  apparent  absence  of  any  decided 

Story  Building  motive  except  to  please  the  reader  and 
thus  put  money  in  the  purse  of  the 
writer,  and  their  first  vague  efforts  after  verisimilitude, 
the  shift  from  the  impossible  to  the  stupendously 
improbable. 

If  from  plot  and  motive  and  the  increasing  demand 
which  these  began  to  make  for  realism,  we  look  to  our 
other  points  of  question,  we  find  emotion  made  for  a  time 
the  most  important  feature  of  the  tales.  The  value  of  the 
background  has  been  recognized,  and  it  is  even  at  times 
perhaps  too  much  enlarged.  In  "Hysminias  and  Hys- 
mene" the  author  plays  with  felicities  and  infelicities  of 
language  as  though  the  sound  meant  more  than  sense. 
Style  is,  of  course,  an  element  which  passes  readily  from 

56 


THE  GREEK  ROMANCES 

one  form  of  literature  to  another ;  and  a  people  who  had 
so  distinguished  themselves  as  orators,  as  poets,  and  as 
historians,  were  not  likely  to  lose  their  eloquence  when 
they  turned  to  fiction.  There  are  passages  of  Achilles 
Tatius,  or  more  especially  of  Chariton  in  his  "Chsereas 
and  Callirrhoe,"  which  fairly  bubble  over  with  the  joy  of 
word  painting.  The  stock  exercises  of  the  Sophist 
schools,  such  as  "a  storm  at  sea,"  are  essayed  with  a 
school  boy's  seriousness  and  a  true  pedant's  pride.  Chari- 
ton knew  all  the  tricks  of  the  trade,  and  could  have  given 
lessons  in  rhetoric  to  many  a  modern. 

Character  drawing  is  also  a  point  of  technique  which 
easily  oversteps  the  novel,  to  appear  in  other  forms  of  lit- 
erature. Hence  one  is  rather  disappointed  that  the  Greeks 
developed  its  possibilities  no  further.  Any  one  of  the 
Greek  romance  heroes  or  heroines  might  be  substituted 
for  any  other.  They  are  types,  not  individuals.  Lanier 
suggests  what  is  perhaps  the  reason  when,  in  asserting 
that  individuality  has  been  vastly  developed  since  Grecian 
times,  he  points  out  that  even  Euripides  thought  of  him- 
self not  as  an  infinitely  separate  bit  of  selfhood,  but  as 
one  of  a  race  of  very  similar  animals. 

So  writers  of  romance  made  their  heroes  all  alike  and 
their  old  men  all  alike,  and  the  only  point  in  which  they 
advanced  beyond  the  Egyptians  was  that  at  least  their 
characters  remain  occasionally  consistent  with  themselves 
and  the  type  to  which  they  belong.  As  to  character  de- 
velopment, the  change  caused  in  the  person  by  the  ex- 
periences undergone  in  the  tale,  it  was  still  wholly  un- 
considered. 

Thus  the  technical  summary  here,  taking  some  vast 

57 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

strides  forward  over  ground  soon  to  be  lost  again,  would 
be: 

1.  Plot — plainly  existent.    A  series  of  causes  and  con- 
sequences with  interweaving  threads  is  begun  and  ended ; 
but  the  plot  lacks  unity,  is  often  interrupted  by  large 
quantities  of  extraneous  matter,  and  it  has  nothing  what- 
ever of  the  dramatic  quality  of  rising  to  a  climax,  it  still 
moves  through  a  succession  of  detached  adventures. 

2.  Motive — varied.    Verisimilitude  is  insisted  on  in  a 
labored  way  which  approaches  the  comic.    The  writer's 
twofold  purpose  to  amaze  and  yet  convince  becomes  self- 
contradictory.     Lesson  he  has  none  to  convey.     Some 
works  seem  chiefly  impelled  by  the  aesthetic  pleasure  of 
the  artist  in  word  music  or  in  picture  painting. 

3.  Character  study — still  unemployed.     The  descrip- 
tions are  of  externals.     But  characters  are  fairly  self' 
consistent.  %  • 

4.  Emotional  excitement — very  prominent,  often  the 
chief  effect  attempted.    In  all  of  the  surviving  writers  ex- 
cept Longus,  however,  it  is  only  used  in  short  outbreaks, 
rising  and  falling  repeatedly.     Longus  seems  really  to 
seek  for  its  cumulative  effect,  to  make  it  rise  for  a  time 
higher  and  higher,  though  he  stepped  aside  from  the 
climax,  did  not  use  its  final  outburst. 

5.  Background — rather  overdone,  a  marked  contrast  to 
the  Egyptian  work.    The  large  space  given  to  this  back- 
ground   causes   Greek   tales,   otherwise    similar   to   the 
Egyptian,  to  extend  to  far  greater  length. 

6.  Style — fully  studied,  self-conscious  and  over-elab- 
orate.1 

^     1The  product  of  fiction  among  the  Romans  was  so  small  in 

58 


THE  GREEK  ROMANCES 


quantity,  and  so  similar  to  that  of  Gree^m  quality,  that  a  sepa- 
rate study  of  it  seems  unnecessary  hereMThe  only  Latin  work  of 
distinctive  interest  in  the  line  of  fictioa^^echnique  is  the  remark- 
able "Encolpius"  of  Petronius  Arbiter.  This  shows  a  most  inter- 
esting affinity  to  the  Spanish  picaresque  tales  of  a  more  recent 
civilization.  But  the  "Encolpius"  was  an  isolated  outburst  of 
genius.  Such  parts  of  it  as  are  fiction  had  apparently  neither 
antecedents  nor  imitators.  Unless  we  assume  that  the  Spanish 
picaresque  writers  of  the  sixteenth  century  read  and  copied 
Petronius,  his  book  had  no  appreciable  influence  on  the  develop- 
ment of  fiction. 


59 


AFTER  V 


THE  MEDIEVAL  CONGLOMERATES 

A  Review  of  the  Before  approaching  a  newer  and  more 
Early  Develop-  vitai  literature  than  that  of  the  decadent 
ment  of  Fiction  Greek  romance>  let  me  restate  briefly  the 

steps  by  which  fiction  seems  to  have  progressed  in  ancient 
days.  It  had  advanced  in  harmony  with  the  progress  of 
man.  Beginning  with  his  infancy,  it  had  followed  him 
step  by  step  in  his  development,  not  representing,  as  do 
poetry  and  ethical  writings,  the  aspirations  of  the  leaders, 
but  accurately  indicating  the  position  of  that  mass  of 
really  intelligent  secondary  minds  that  follow  the  van- 
guard, just  a  step  behind.  Fiction  must  first  have  shown 
as  an  art  when  man's  waking  self-consciousness  led  him 
to  intentional  exaggeration.  Its  first  great  step  was 
the  substitution  of  the  wholly  imaginary  tale  for  the 
merely  enlarged  one.  Then  came  the  art's  own  recog- 
nition of  itself  as  an  art,  involving  self-study,  ex- 
periment, and  a  craftsman's  delight  in  the  handling 
of  his  tools,  pride  in  the  wording  for  the  mere  word's 
sake. 

For  interest,  fiction  appealed  at  first  to  simple  wonder, 
gradually  expanding  on  this  till  the  very  over-elaboration 
and  more  manifest  impossibility  of  its  marvels  wrought 
their  own  downfall,  and  compelled  stories  to  assume  the 
appearance  of  "every-day"  truth.  Under  this  restraint 
wonder  ceased  to  be  all-sufficient  for  interest,  and  gradu- 

60 


THE  MEDIEVAL  CONGLOMERATES 

ally  love  was  substituted  for  it  as  the  prime  mover  of  the 
tale.  Crude  character  study  began  also  to  appear;  the 
reader,  the  common  man,  was  becoming  an  analyst. 

Thus  far  only  can  classic  fiction  carry  us,  for  only  thus 
far  did  it  advance.  The  next  step  was  to  be  the  birth  of 
moral  feeling,  the  sense  of  moral  responsibility  on  the 
part  of  the  writer,  the  introduction  of  more  serious  pur- 
pose into  the  tale.  And  this  step  was  obviously  impossi- 
ble in  a  period  of  moral  decadence. 

If  this  reading  of  the  causes  and  changes  in  the  ad- 
vance of  fiction  appears  partly  theoretical,  it  assumes 
more  the  stability  of  assured  truth  when 

Modern*1"  We  check  and  comPare  {t  with  the  rise 

Fiction  °f  ^e  Present  novel.    In  this  we  have  a 

wholly  new  development  with  a  new 
race,  yet  it  follows  essentially  the  same  lines.  Greek 
romance,  with  all  its  really  noteworthy  advances  in  tech- 
nique, had  disappeared  with  all  things  Grecian,  and  it  was 
not  until  the  close  of  the  sixteenth  century  that  its  frag- 
ments were  resuscitated  from  forgotten  corners  of 
dreamy  monasteries  and  translated  into  modern  tongues. 
Then,  indeed,  Heliodorus  and  Chariton  and  Longus  had  a 
lesson  to  teach,  an  influence  to  exert  on  fiction.  But  by 
that  time  the  creation  of  the  modern  novel  was  almost 
complete;  it  had  grown  up  from  other  sources;  and  one 
may  fairly  question  whether  the  republication  of  Greek 
romance  did  not  retard  rather  than  assist  the  new 
development. 

Modern  fiction  has  spread  upward  from  the  people,  y 
not  downward  from  the  scholars.    The  learned  mediaeval 
Dry-as-dust,  stumbling  on  its  crude  beginnings,  passed 

61 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

them  with  contempt.  Seldom  indeed  until  our  own  day 
have  scholars  stooped  to  fictitious  narrative.  Thus  the 
novel  finds  its  appropriate  source  among  the  un- 
learned, among  those  unlettered  child  Teutons,  whose 
warrior  strength  so  easily  outmatched  an  enervate 
antiquity. 

The  earlier  tales  of  the  Teutons  have  been  preserved 
only  in  verse.  In  that  ponderously  monumental  history 
\J  of  fiction  by  Dunlop*,  to  which  most  of  the  modern  dis- 
cussion of  the  novel  looks  back,  the  author  adopts  a  line 
of  demarcation  between  verse  and  prose  and,  adhering 
to  it  rigidly,  discusses  only  "prose  fiction."  This  seems 
legitimate  enough  in  a  work  which  aims  chiefly  to  be  a 
descriptive  catalogue  of  a  vast  number  of  books.  The 
author  merely  saves  himself  a  certain  amount  of  labor, 
just  as  he  might  have  done  by  limiting  himself  to  books 
whose  titles  began  in  the  first  half  of  the  alphabet.  Such 
a  line  of  exclusion  is,  however,  impossible  in  a  work  of 
the  present  character.  In  examining  Greek  fiction  it  was 
unnecessary  to  consider  Homer;  because  the  Greek  epic 
always  retained  its  superhuman  outlook,  its  national  am- 
plitude, and  was  thus  a  wholly  separate  art,  the  influence 
of  which  on  Greek  romance  was  no  greater  than  that  of 
other  arts.  In  the  mediaeval  world,  on  the  contrary,  tales 
in  verse  and  tales  in  prose  were  wholly  similar  in  spirit, 
and  passed  frequently  from  one  outward  garb  to  the 
other.  Only  during  the  Renaissance  period  did  the  verse 
tales,  under  the  influence  of  antique  models,  develop  ar- 
tistically and  formally  away  from  prose,  and  establish  for 
themselves  a  conscious  and  separate  technique.  Hence 
for  the  present  discussion  the  exclusion  of  the  mediaeval 

62 


THE  MEDIAEVAL  CONGLOMERATES 

stories  in  verse  would  be  a  purely  arbitrary  distinction,  a 
deliberate  shutting  of  the  eyes  to  much  that  will  some 
day  be  learned. 

The  oldest  surviving  monument  of  Teutonic  narrative 
is  the  "Beowulf."  The  origin  of  this  remarkable  epic 

«         ir  need  not  here  concern  us.    It  may  have 

Beowulf  ...  J 

been,  as  its  critics  suggest,  part  nature 

myth,  part  history,  a  gathering  of  many  fragments;  but 
when  in  its  final  form  it  was  sung  to  the  wild  English 
Saxon  warriors,  it  had  become  a  straightforward  tale  ac- 
cepted by  the  listeners  as  a  record  of  human  life.  How 
much  credence  they  gave  it  as  actually,  historically  hap- 
pening, we  can  not  say.  Perhaps  they  trusted  it  as  guile- 
lessly as  the  ordinary  casual  reader  trusts  our  histories  of 
to-day.  Perhaps  they  never  gave  it  the  acceptance  and 
importance  which  the  Greeks  gave  to  the  "Iliad."  Pure 
history,  "Beowulf"  obviously  is  not,  but  an  invention,  man- 
made,  with  its  incoherent  parts  put  consciously  together 
by  an  effort  of  human  skill.  Indeed  in  dealing  with  all 
the  earlier  mediaeval  fiction  the  word  "conglomerate"  ir- 
resistibly suggests  itself.  The  tales  seem  so  helplessly 
devoid  of  unity,  of  any  single,  all-pervading  life  within; 
they  are  so  obviously  bits  swept  accidentally  together, 
hammered  together  from  without. 

"Beowulf"  is  such  a  conglomerate.  In  one  way  it 
carries  the  student  back  to  an  even  earlier  stage  of  literary 
development  than  is  represented  by  the  Egyptian  tales. 
Magic  in  its  full  sense  has  not  yet  appeared.  The  story 
teller  had  but  reached  the  period  when  the  hero's  victory 
over  all  human  foes  had  become  matter  of  course,  and 
palled  upon  the  ear.  He  must  have  superhuman  foes  to 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

fight,  Grendel,  the  marsh  fiend,  and  the  old  hag  his 
mother,  who  lives  beneath  the  bottomless  pool. 

The  distinction  between  this  use  of  the  merely  super- 
human and  the  employment  of  magic,  is  an  important  one, 
as  marking  the  progress  toward  verisimilitude,  the  awak- 
ing of  the  critic  sense.  The  marsh  fiend's  flesh  is  im- 
pervious to  sword-stroke,  yet  Beowulf  hews  off  his  head. 
An  Eastern  tale  would  have  introduced  a  mystic  ointment 
or  an  enchanted  weapon  to  explain  this  success  in  the  im- 
possible. Beowulf,  plunging  boldly,  sinks  a  whole  sum- 
mer's day  through  the  waters  of  the  bottomless  tarn, 
fights  the  hag  there  in  the  twilight  shadows  of  her  den, 
then  rises  to  the  surface  again.  A  later  hero  would  have 
possessed  some  charm  to  enable  him  to  breathe  amid  his 
unnatural  surroundings.  The  difficulty  probably  never 
occurred  to  the  early  Saxon  mind.  Or  if  it  did,  the  chain 
of  reasoning  was  simple :  "I  can  by  great  exertion  exist 
under  water  a  minute,  maybe  two.  Beowulf  did  it  for  a 
whole  day.  He  was  thus  much  the  greater." 

Another  distinction  even  more  valuable  than  this  sim- 
plicity of  belief  may  be  noted  as  separating  the  early  Teu- 
tonic tales  from  those  of  the  East,  a  distinction  in  which 
perhaps  lies  the  explanation  why  the  one  has  lived,  while 
the  other  died.  The  old  fiction  faded  into  unlamented 
desuetude ;  the  new  has  reached  already  a  level  infinitely 
beyond  its  predecessor,  yet  rises  ever  higher,  with  no  sign 
of  weakening  or  decay.  The  difference  lies  in  the  greater 
virility,  the  inherent  force,  the  courage,  of  the  more 
Northern  race.  Beowulf,  it  is  true,  outrages  nature  in 
that  lengthy  plunge;  but  what  Eastern  hero  would  have 
attempted  it  at  all  ?  Or  to  turn  for  illustration  to  an  Ice- 


THE  MEDIEVAL  CONGLOMERATES 

landic  tale,  what  Eastern  hero  would,  like  Grettir  in  the 
saga  of  "Grettir  the  Strong,"  have  waited,  of  set  purpose, 
for  a  troll,  a  demon  dwelling  in  a  decayed  human  corpse, 
wrestled  through  a  whole  night  with  the  ghoulish  mon- 
ster, body  to  body,  until  at  last,  with  face  smothered  deep 
in  the  troll's  dank  beard,  he  broke  the  thing's  back  and 
slowly  crushed  the  demon  life  out  of  it  in  defiance  of  its 
heart-withering  curse  ? 

The  Eastern  tales,  the  Eastern  heroes,  were  made  of 
no  such  fibre  as  this.  Such  strength  it  was  not  in  them 
even  to  imagine.  The  Egyptian  sailor  of  the  "Isle  of 
Snakes"  tells  us  he  has  a  heart  "greater  than  a  lion,"  yet 
he  constantly  "lay  on  his  face"  before  the  serpents  and 
"held  his  arms  low"  to  them.  Grettir  would  have  known 
his  place  in  creation  better ;  he  knew  that  he,  not  the  ser- 
pent, was  earth's  master.  Clitophon,  in  the  Grecian  mas- 
terpiece of  Tatius,  is  even  more  slavish  in  his  submission 
to  the  beatings  of  his  master.  Fancy  how  the  least  of 
those  Northern  barbarians  would  have  burst  through  the 
flimsy  tangled  webs  of  the  older  romance! 

"Better  it  is  for  every  man,"  says  Beowulf,  "that  he 
avenge  his  friend,  than  that  he  mourn  much."1  One  could 
almost  suspect  Beowulf  of  studying  the  old  Grecian  tales, 
so  accurately  does  he  strike  the  point,  and  emphasize  his 
own  superiority. 

The  plot,  or  what  it  will  be  safer  to  call  the  succession 
of  events,  in  "Beowulf"  is  too  well  known  to  need  repeti- 
tion. The  hero's  various  exploits  have  little  or  no  connec- 
tion with  one  another;  they  are  put  together  merely  as 
performed  by  the  same  man.  Critics  believe  that  orig- 

'Vide  "Beowulf,"  Arnold's  edition,  1876,  p.  92,  line  1384  et  seq. 

65 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

inally  they  were  narrated  as  four  or  more  wholly  separate 
songs ;  and  they  would  certainly  read  better  as  that  many 
separate  stories. 

Other  qualities  deemed  most  essential  in  the  modern 
novel  are  even  less  in  evidence.  Of  emotional  expression 
there  is  practically  none.  Beowulf  is  asked  to  accomplish 
something,  he  does  it,  boasts  somewhat  childishly  of  his 
prowess,  and  the  incident  is  closed.  An  exception  to  this 
general  statement  should,  however,  be  made  with  refer- 
ence to  the  episode  of  Wiglaf  in  the  final  dragon  fight.1 
A  real  note  of  youthful  passion  may  perhaps  be  found 
there,  with  youth's  wavering,  its  rising  excitement,  and 
final  rush  of  action.  Wiglaf  furnishes  also  the  only  bit 
of  character  study  in  the  whole,  and  for  this  reason  it  has 
been  suggested  that  this  part  of  the  poem  may  be  of  later 
date  than  the  remainder.  Beowulf  himself  is  not  inten- 
tionally differentiated  from  other  men;  he  is  merely  the 
culmination,  the  ideal  of  what  each  of  the  listeners  sought 
to  be,  a  mighty  warrior  and  sturdy  drinker,  invincible, 
without  a  touch  of  fear. 

Fighting  and  feasting  were  the  established  pleasures  of 
the  Teuton,  and  he  felt  therefore  a  joy  in  hearing  of  those 
things.  Love  had  not  yet  risen  on  his  literary  horizon. 
Hence  the  details  of  fighting,  and  more  especially  of 
feasting,  supply  the  "Beowulf"  with  what  to  us  would  be 
a  background  against  which  the  emotional  story  might  be 
displayed.  To  their  own  day  these  details  were  obviously 
not  background,  but  valued  and  indeed  essential  parts  of 
the  tale.  How  much  Beowulf  drank  and  what  gifts  he 

1Vide  Arnold's  "Beowulf,"  p.  165,  line  2599  et  seq. 

66 


THE  MEDIEVAL  CONGLOMERATES 

gained,  were  matters  quite  as  important  as  how  and  whom 
he  fought. 

To  summarize,  then,  the  development  of  the  elements 
of  the  novel  as  displayed  in  this  the  most  ancient  survival 
of  Teutonic  tale-telling,  we  find : 

'•  Pl°'— not  at  a11  conceived  as  a  ne- 
cessity   of    the    entire    conglomeration. 

Some  of  the  events,  however,  have  within  themselves  a 
vague  rising  and  falling  action,  difficulties  accumulate  to 
a  certain  point  and  then  are  overcome. 

2.  Motive — verisimilitude  exists  in  a  barbaric  fashion. 
The   impossibilities   seem   attributable   to   ignorance   as 
much  as  design.    In  a  rough  way  the  original  bard  may 
merely  have  woven  together  the  things  he  told,  accepting 
them  as  detached  facts.     There  is  no  proof  that  this  is 
deliberate  fiction.    Moral  elevation  is  also  shown,  though 
apparently  instinctive  rather  than  deliberate.    The  bard 
must,  consciously  or  no,  have  inspired  his  audience  by 
this  picture  of  an  actual  heroism  such  as  they  themselves 
might  emulate. 

3.  Character  portrayal — not  conscious,  except  perhaps 
in  Wiglaf. 

4.  Emotional  excitement — certainly  not  continuous  nor 
insisted  on,  though  perhaps  momentarily  suggested. 

5.  Background — not   intentionally   introduced.     Each 
scene  is  shown  for  its  own  value. 

6.  Style — rudely  poetic,  strong  but  confused,  and  with 
small  sense  of  construction.     The  singer  will  sometimes 
stop  in  the  very  midst  of  a  fight,  while  some  hero's  family 
history  is  fully  retailed.    Hence  for  story  telling  the  style 
is  very  crude. 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

Passing  from  "Beowulf"  to  the  later  mediaeval  epics, 

one  meets  many  interesting  advances  in  technique.    This 

progress  may  be  traced  to  some  extent 

in  the  Arthurian  romances,  which,  not- 
Nibelungenhed        ...    A.     -  rT 

ably  in  the  figure  of  Launcelot,  developed 

emotion,  or  in  the  Charlemagne  cycle,  where,  in  the  "Song 
of  Roland,"  we  find  a  plot  made  fairly  consecutive  though 
not  of  primary  importance.1  But  in  none  of  these  tales  is 
the  advance  sufficient  to  serve  as  a  turning  point  demand- 
ing close  inspection.  Some  of  the  Northern  sagas  show, 
in  technique,  a  much  more  marked  approach  toward  the 
novel.  The  gloom  of  the  Northern  mind,  its  intense  feel- 
ing of  the  overmastering  power  of  fate,  often  lent  a  strik- 
ing unity  to  its  tales.  Every  hero  is  doomed,  his  fate  has 
been  marked  out  for  him  from  the  beginning.  Often  this 
foredoom  is  announced  to  him  early  in  the  saga  of  his 
life.  Moreover,  there  existed  a  sad  sense  that  man  was 
commonly  destroyed  by  those  nearest  and  dearest  to  him. 
Hence  the  destroyer  sometimes  goes  through  the  saga  a 
more  or  less  prominent  figure  by  the  side  of  the  hero. 
Here  is,  in  a  primitive  way,  plot.  There  are  causes,  inter- 
woven threads  and  consequences,  usually  a  dramatic  con- 
sequence. A  multitude  of  disconnected  events  crowd  in 
between,  but  never  quite  destroy  the  sense  of  impending 
catastrophe. 

aThe  plot,  or  rather  the  story  outline,  in  the  "Song  of  Roland" 
is  made  consecutive  and  mathematically  complete,  but,  if  one  may 
use  the  expression,  idly  so.  I  shall  dwell  later  on  the  idea  that  a 
plot  deals  not  only  with  action  but  with  the  increase  of  emotional 
interest,  and  the  development  of  character.  The  plot  of  "Roland" 
has  no  real  connection  with  the  epic's  aim.  The  epic  interest 
centres  wholly  on  the  defiant  speeches  of  the  bold  warriors  and  the 
mighty  blows  they  deal  in  battle.  The  plot  might  just  as  well 
have  been  left  out 

68 


THE  MEDIEVAL  CONGLOMERATES 

"Each  of  us  must 
"The  end  await 
"Of  world's  life. 
"Work,  he  who  can 
"High  deeds  ere  death."* 

Perhaps  this  foreshadowing  has  its  fullest  expression 
in  the  "Nibelungenlied,"  most  celebrated  of  the  German 
epics.  The  story  of  this  is  well  known;  it  tells  of  the 
wooing  and  wedding  of  Prince  Siegfried  and  the  Prin- 
cess Kriemhild,  of  the  slaying  of  Siegfried  by  his  wife's 
brothers,  and  of  the  revenge  by  which,  after  many  years, 
Kriemhild  wipes  out  her  own  race,  the  race  of  the 
murderers.  Throughout  the  tale  the  tragic  end  is  always 
kept  in  view.  The  first  "adventure"  contains  a  forecast 
of  the  whole.  Men  foresee  their  doom,  and  approach  it 
with  defiant  fatalism. 

As  to  the  merits  of  the  plot,  some  of  its  admirers  have 
been  quite  enthusiastic.  Carlyle  says,  "Of  the  Fable,  or 
narrative  material  of  the  'Nibelungen/  we  should  say 
that  it  had  high,  almost  the  highest,  merit;  so  daintily 
yet  firmly  is  it  put  together;  with  such  felicitous  selec- 
tion of  the  beautiful,  the  essential,  and  no  less  felicitous 
rejection  of  whatever  was  unbeautiful  or  even  extrane- 
ous."2 Of  course  he  is  speaking  of  the  epic  here  from 
a  poetic  rather  than  a  novelistic  standpoint.  But  else- 
where he  declares  that  it  "has  a  basis  and  organic 
structure,  a  beginning,  middle,  and  end ;  there  is  one  great 
principle  and  idea  set  forth  in  it,  round  which  all  its 
multifarious  parts  combine  in  living  union."3 

Wide  "Beowulf,"  Arnold's  edition,  1876..  p.  92,  line  1386  et  seq. 
2Vide  "Westminster  Review"  for  1831,  p.  16. 
8Ibid.,  p.  14. 

69 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

In  face  of  this  enthusiasm  it  is  disappointing  to  find 
German  critics  themselves  persistent  in  declaring  the 
"Nibelungenlied"  a  conglomeration,  like  the  "Beowulf," 
of  many  originally  separate  poems.  Following  their  lines 
of  thought,  it  would  be  easy  to  pick  serious  flaws  in  the 
unity  which  Carlyle  has  praised.  The  first  half  of  the 
epic  deals  in  rather  fragmentary  style  with  the  vengeful 
love  of  Brunhild  for  Siegfried.  Tricked  by  him  and  in- 
sulted by  her  more  fortunate  rival,  she  brings  about  his 
death  and  then  her  own.  Only  after  this  does  Kriemhild 
become  the  pivot  of  the  plot;  and  even  then  she  is  not 
the  centre  of  interest.  Her  revenge  constitutes  really  a 
new  tale,  a  second  tragedy  above  which  her  hard-handed 
brothers,  strong  in  death,  tower  grimly  as  the  ruling  fig- 
ures. To  a  modern  novel,  it  would  certainly  be  fatal  to 
have  the  chief  hero  slain,  as  is  Siegfried,  before  the 
middle  of  the  book.  Must  not  the  ancient  listeners  have 
voiced  the  criticism  so  often  heard  from  modern  readers 
of  the  poem,  "I  care  no  more  for  it,  now  Siegfried  is 
dead"?  Or  did  the  passing  of  a  single  individual  loom 
less  large  to  the  minds  of  our  ancestors  than  it  does  to 
our  own? 

As  to  verisimilitude,  the  singer  of  the  "Nibelungenlied" 
insists  in  almost  every  stanza  that  thus  has  he  "heard  men 
tell."  The  words  may  be  little  more  than  a  poetic  formula 
intended  to  fill  out  the  verse;  but  evidently  the  speaker 
had.  some  desire  to  be  believed,  some  aim  to  convince.  He 
pushed  magic  into  the  background,  using  it  chiefly  for 
omens,  the  unheeded  warnings  of  doom.  Emotion,  both 
as  existent  in  his  characters  and  as  a  quality  demanded 
of  his  readers,  is  thus  kept  plainly  in  view.  But  only  in 

70 


THE  MEDIEVAL  CONGLOMERATES 

the  form  of  vengeance  is  it  fully  recognized  as  dominating 
life.  The  writer's  real  aim  seems  to  be  to  approach  emo- 
tion from  the  artistic,  the  poetic  side,  and  convey  to  his 
audience  the  sorrow  and  tragedy  of  human  existence.  He 
looked  thoughtfully  and  frankly  at  his  characters,  talk- 
ing of  them  with  a  clear,  simple  sense  of  what  they  would 
be  likely  to  do. 

Yet  their  actions  hardly  seem  satisfying ;  they  are  "plot- 
ridden,"  as  Beowulf  was  not.  Even  Carlyle  feels  con- 
strained to  admit  of  the  singer  that  "he  had  little  power 
of  delineating  character ;  perhaps  he  had  no  decisive  vision 
thereof.  His  persons  are  superficially  distinguished,  and 
not  altogether  without  generic  difference;  but  the  por- 
traiture is  imperfectly  brought  out;  there  lay  no  true 
living  original  within  him."1  The  Germans,  seeking  to 
distinguish  between  the  different  authors  of  the  different 
parts,  will  not  dismiss  the  matter  thus  as  a  whole.  Scherer 
condemned  several  of  the  songs  as  worthless,  but  praised 
the  final  or  twentieth  song  as  "the  most  powerful  portrait- 
ure of  action  and  character  produced  by  Middle  High- 
German  heroic  poetry."2 

Technically  considered,  the  difficulty  seems  to  bejhat 
the__poem  found  itself^va%uely  bound  to  history,  or  to 
tradition.  The  author  did  not  create  his  own  legend. 
He  accepted  the  older,  well-known  tales  of  Siegfried  and 
the  other  characters.  He  wove  his  material  together,  but 
jie  was  overladen  with"  it  and  tried  to  tell  too  jrmcJvon 
themes  top  ^widelyseparated,joo  entirely  detached.  More- 

'Vide  "Westminster  Review"  for  1831,  p.  44- 
2Vide  "A  History  of  German  Literature,"  English  edition, 
1886,  Vol.  I,  p.  112. 

71 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

over  he  was  hampered  by  the  fame  of  his  chief  figures ; 
he  did  not  venture  to  change  their  actions.  Siegfried 
must  die,  and  Kriemhild  must  avenge.  If  the  author 
thought,  as  he  sometimes  seemed  to  think,  that  the 
impulses  actuating  his  puppets  were  unnatural  or  in- 
sufficient, he  could  only  fall  back  on  his  somewhat 
monotonous  iteration  that  thus  the  story  had  been  told 
to  him. 

So  that  a  summary  of  this  most  famous  epic,  con- 
sidered not  for  itself,  but  for  its  tendency  toward  the 
novel,  would  be: 

1.  Plot — strong  and  clearly  marked,  with  much  fore- 
warning,   but    over-expanded   and    disjointed    in   itself, 
breaking  into  two  tales  or  more. 

2.  Motive — partly  at  least  to  express  poetic  emotion, 
sorrow,  the  tragedy  of  life.    Verisimilitude  is  seemingly 
desired,  and  magic  is  made  subordinate. 

3.  Character  portrayal — most  of  the  figures  well  differ- 
entiated,   but   scarce   conceived    from   the   heart,   plot- 
ridden. 

4.  Emotional  excitement — strongly  emphasized  in  the 
form  of  vengeance,  but  not  employed  as  the  real  driving 
power  of  the  plot.     Men  are  driven  on  by  Fate,  not  by 
human  feelings  or  desires. 

5.  Background — filled  with  details  of  court  life,  though 
some  German  critics  feel  that,  as  with  "Beowulf,"  these 
details  are  not  background,  but  the  themes  and  incidents 
of  separate  poems. 

6.  Style — of  real  dignity  and  considerable  poetic  worth, 
though  obviously  padded  in  almost  childish  fashion  for 
the  versification. 

72 


THE  MEDIEVAL  CONGLOMERATES 

Thus  far  I  have  sought  to  emphasize  the  difference 
between  ancient  and  modern  fiction ;  but  this  should  not 
be  allowed  to  conceal  the  similarity  of 
Thc .  their  advance.  In  many  respects  the  de- 

Romances  velopment  of  modern  fiction  has  closely 

paralleled  that  of  Egypt  and  of  Greece. 
Despite  the  subordination  of  magic  in  the  "Nibelungen- 
lied,"  the  later  tale-telling  was  to  have  its  period  of  appeal 
to  the  marvellous.  The  Frenchmen  saw  to  that.  Even 
the  fiends  and  ghouls  of  the  Northland  were  foes  too 
simple  for  Amadis  of  Gaul  and  Palmerin.  The  heroes  of 
chivalry  must  have  dragons  and  magicians,  enchanted 
castles,  and  armies  like  the  sands  of  the  sea  vainly  striv- 
ing to  do  battle  against  the  might  of  a  single  arm.  As 
in  Grecian  days,  the  wonders  grew  and  grew,  until  at 
last  they  did  overstep  the  bound  of  man's  almost  infinite 
credulity.  Then  Cervantes  with  one  push  sent  them 
whirling  into  oblivion. 

The  love  interest,  unknown  to  Beowulf  or  Grettir, 
was  also  rediscovered  and  gradually  became  dominant. 
In  the  "Song  of  Roland,"  in  the  eleventh  century,  we  are 
abruptly  told  that  the  hero's  betrothed,  on  hearing  of  his 
death,  fell  dead  of  grief,  but  otherwise  the  lady  remains 
unnoted  throughout  the  poem,  which  dwells  on  speech- 
making  and  battle,  man's  arts  of  tongue  and  hand.  In 
the  "Nibelungenlied"  both,  love  and  friendship  hold  a 
larger  space,  but  war  and  vengeance  still  remain  the  dom- 
inant passions.  A  little  later  Launcelot  and  Tristram 
are  presented  as  love's  utter  slaves,  and  Tristram  dies  at 
its  disappointment. 

Pursuing  yet  another  parallel,  we  find  the  study  of 

73 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

expression,  the  delight  in  words  for  their  own  sake,  grow- 
ing through  the  ages  until  at  last  it  reached  to  such  ornate 
and  self-satisfied  pomposity  that  even  Cervantes  could  not 
laugh  it  out  of  existence  with  the  other  absurdities.  It 
survived  in  the  pastorals,  which  again,  as  with  Longus, 
rose  from  the  ruins  of  the  marvel  tale.  At  the  opening 
of  the  seventeenth  century,  D'Urfe's  "Astree,"  with  its 
sententious  exaggerations  of  speech,  was  the  admired  tale 
of  the  day,  the  imitated  of  all  imitators. 

D'Urfe  carries  us  rather  beyond  the  mediaeval  period, 
but  a  glance  at  his  extravagant  school  emphasizes  the 
complete  change  in  the  method  of  appeal  by  which  the 
later  romances  sought  to  attract  an  audience.  This  change 
was  obviously  not  in  the  direction  of  verisimilitude.  Yet 
it  is  one  of  these  very  court  romances,  the  best  of  them, 
"Amadis  of  Gaul,"  that  Professor  Warren  has  selected 
as  the  first  modern  novel.  Let  us,  therefore,  look  to  this 
work  somewhat  carefully  to  see  to  what  extent  it  possesses 
the  six  essential  elements  of  the  craft. 

One  may  read  "Amadis"  in  almost  any  language,  so 
widely   has   it   been   translated.     In   English   we   have 
Southey's  artistic  rendering,  which  has 
the  further  merit  of  being  very  consider- 
ably abridged.     In  the  original  Spanish 
the  narrative  is  in  prose,  and  pleasant  in   style,   de- 
spite its  extravagance.     The  gallant  gentleman,  Senor 
de  Montalvo,  who  recast  the  tale  in  its  final  shape  prob- 
ably about   1470,  was  a  lover  of  fine  words;  and  the 
work  is  almost  as  much  a  text-book  for  courtly  speeches 
and   elaborate  moral   reflections  as   is  the  Elizabethan 
"Euphues."    Amadis  himself,  like  Beowulf,  is  a  model 

74 


THE  MEDIEVAL  CONGLOMERATES 

offered  to  the  auditors,  depicting  their  own  ideal  of  a 
gallant  knight.  Hence  he  is  not  a  studied  human  char- 
acter. The  same  may  be  said  of  his  lady,  Oriana ;  but  in 
some  of  the  lesser  personages  of  the  tale  there  is  real 
character  study,  not  character  development,  but  thought- 
ful portrayal  of  the  motives  characteristic  of  the 
individual. 

The  so-called  plot  is  admittedly  a  mere  thread  on  which 
to  hang  incident.  The  book  begins  with  the  tale  of  the 
father  and  mother  of  Amadis,  goes  on  to  the  hero's  birth, 
and  carries  him  through  childhood  till  he  meets  Oriana. 
Thereafter  it  never  quite  forgets  him  or  her.  Long  series 
of  adventures  are  recounted  as  happening  to  other 
knights ;  but  the  narrator  always  remembers  and  returns 
to  Amadis  at  last.  Obstacles  separate  him  from  his  lady ; 
and  when  he  has  conquered  them  all  and  is  on  the  point 
of  wedding  her,  a  new  set  of  obstacles  is  introduced, 
totally  unconnected  with  the  last  lot.  Sometimes  not  even 
an  obstacle  seemed  essential  to  the  author.  Amadis  is 
merely  called  on  to  champion  some  cause,  and  so  goes 
a-wandering  again.  Thus  we  have  really  a  succession  of 
love  romances  wholly  separate  except  for  referring  to  the 
same  hero  and  heroine.  Each  time  that  the  reader  thinks 
the  book  must  surely  end,  the  author  takes  a  new  quill 
and  starts  off  afresh.  Finally  a  son  is  born  to  the  lovers ; 
but  even  after  that  Montalvo  refuses  to  allow  them  a  full 
royal  wedding  ceremony  until  he  has  written  another  book 
of  interruptions.  Then  they  are  at  last  united  and  dis- 
missed with  the  blessing  of  the  author  and  the  reader. 

In  all  the  love  romances  of  this  period  there  is  plenty 
of  emotional  excitement,  if  one  can  persuade  himself  to 

75 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

believe  in  the  genuineness  of  the  passion  expressed  in  the 
wordy  speeches.  And  it  is  because  of  the  union  of  this 
love  theme  with  the  extremely  attenuated  thread  of  plot 
suggested  in  the  oft-delayed  wedding  that  Professor 
Warren  decides  to  call  "Amadis"  a  novel.  But  this 
standard  would  admit  a  dozen  older  romances,  Boccaccio's 
"Fiametta,"  Chaucer's  "Troilus  and  Cresside,"  and  even 
the  "Nibelungenlied,"  unless  one  bars  out  the  two  latter 
works  by  the  mechanical  expedient  of  declaring  that  the 
novel  must  be  in  prose,  that  if  the  words  fall  into  metre 
they  debar  the  substance  from  consideration.  In  which 
connection  it  is  worth  noting  that  many  of  the  speeches 
in  "Amadis"  itself  are  rhythmic,  as,  indeed,  they  are  in 
all  elaborate  forms  of  prose. 

Let  us  then  compare  "Amadis"  with  the  "Nibelungen- 
lied" a  little  more  closely,  as  to  their  possession  of  the 
novel's   elements.     The  earlier  work   I 
The  Separation     haye  airea(jv  summarized,  the  "Amadis" 

offers  a  result  about  as  follows: 
Romance 

I.  Plot — wholly  indifferent  to  cumu- 
lative force,  conceived  only  as  a  thin  thread  of  emotion  to 
connect  a  long  string  of  unrelated  incidents  and  episodes. 

2.  Motive — to  express  poetic  emotion,  to  portray  the 
ideal.    Verisimilitude  is  wholly  abandoned ;  magic  is  used 
at  almost  every  turn,  not  to  astonish,  but  only  to  give 
each  errant  knight  new  glories  or  new  sorrows. 

3.  Character  portrayal — main  figures  only  types,  a  few 
lesser  ones  effectively  outlined. 

4.  Emotional    excitement — romantically    asserted    and 
much  exaggerated,  but  little  understood,  unconvincing  to 
modern  ears. 


THE  MEDLEY AL  CONGLOMERATES 

5.  Background — intentionally  filled  in  with  court  de- 
scriptions, conversations,  and  author's  moral  reflections. 

6.  Style — extravagantly  elaborate. 

Placing  these  two  tables  side  by  side,  a  fact  already 
suggested  becomes  more  evident,  namely,  that  the  ro- 
mances of  the  Middle  Ages  did  not  approach  nearer  and 
nearer  to  the  modern  novel,  but  rather  developed  away 
from  it  along  lines  of  extravagance  and  exaltation.  Some- 
where, then,  in  the  dim  twilight  of  those  twelfth  and  thir- 
teenth centuries  in  which  the  "Nibelungenlied"  took  shape, 
somewhere  there,  novel  and  romance  began  to  differenti- 
ate. The  novel,  to  be  sure,  had  as  yet  no  distinct  exist- 
ence ;  its  principles  were  unrecognized  or  still  commingled 
with  those  of  its  more  prominent  cousin;  it  had  much 
still  to  learn  from  that  cousin's  career.  Yet,  since 
romance  was  no  longer  developing  toward  plot  and  veri- 
similitude, we  must  begin  to  look  elsewhere  for  other 
influences  which  led  to  the  novel ;  we  must  supply  it  with 
another  line  of  ancestry. 

It  has  become  almost  a  commonplace  to  say  that  the 

novel  sprang  from  a  union  of  the  chivalric  court  romances 

and  the  short  prose  tales  of  the  common 

Short  Prose  people.  In  these  prose  tales,  however, 
Talcs  of  the  ,  ,  ..  .  .  ., 

Middle  Ages          we  fin^  t^ie  same  lac^  °*  unltv  as  ln 

romance.     In  the  "Gesta  Romanorum," 

the  "Hundred  Merry  Tales,"  and  kindred  works,  we  have 
collections  of  short  anecdotes,  which  do  indeed  go  straight 
enough  to  the  point,  with  true  economy  of  material.  But 
the  moment  one  of  the  tales  mounts  to  a  thousand  words, 
it  begins  to  wander.  As  for  the  longer  prose  narratives, 
such  as  developed  around  Hamlet  and  Robert  the  Devil, 

77 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

they  are  chiefly  remarkable  for  their  utter  lack  of  point 
and  direction. 

Of  course  these  tales  of  the  people  have  mainly  reached 
us  after  repeated  revision  at  the  hands  of  monkish  scribes ; 
and  it  is  difficult  to  say  whether  their  earlier  forms  may 
not  have  been  more  self-consistent,  as  they  assuredly  were 
less  tedious.  Take  the  monkish  version  of  "Friar  Bacon 
and  Friar  Bungey"  as  a  fair  illustration.  In  the  earlier 
chapters  the  two  heroes  do  bold  and  rather  roguish  feats 
of  magic.  Bacon  sets  a  knight  riding  unwillingly  through 
bog  and  brier,  or  fastens  a  long  bladder  of  pudding  to 
hang  from  a  greedy  servant's  lips.  He  captures  a  town 
for  his  king,  makes  the  famous  "head  of  brass,"  and  plans 
to  wall  all  England  round  with  brass.  He  is  mischievous, 
but  brave  and  patriotic  and  honorable.  Yet  he  is  not 
permitted  to  carry  through  a  single  trick  without  speech- 
making  about  it ;  and  in  the  end  he  is  made  to  repent  the 
error  of  his  ways,  become  convinced  that  even  his  white 
magic  is  wicked,  and  that  the  glories  he  has  added  to 
England  were  not  worth  while.  So  he  burns  his  books, 
moralizes  through  an  entire  chapter,  shuts  himself  for 
years  in  a  lone  cell,  digs  his  grave  "with  his  own  nayles," 
and  dies  "a  true  Penitent  Sinner  and  Anchorite."  As  for 
poor  Bungey,  the  lesser  wizard,  he  is  slain  outright  by  the 
devil,  and  his  body  left  "breathless  and  strangely  burnt 
with  fire,"  though  it  is  given  "Christian  buriall  because 
of  his  order  sake." 

So,  too,  poor  Guy  of  Warwick,  slayer  of  the  great  dun 
cow  as  well  as  of  dragons  and  other  pests  innumerable 
for  his  lady's  sake,  is  made  to  see  the  error  of  his  ways ; 
and,  after  marrying  the  fair  Phaelice,  he  leaves  her,  to 

78 


THE  MEDIEVAL  CONGLOMERATES 

become  a  pilgrim.  On  his  return  from  Jerusalem  he 
dwells  for  years  close  to  his  wife,  but  unknown  to  her, 
a  venerable  hermit,  watching  her  while  she  mourns  in- 
cessantly for  his  sake — a  piece  of  brutality  which  it  is 
hard  to  conceive  that  any  race  of  men  could  ever  have 
thought  holy.  One  doubts,  indeed,  if  they  ever  did  think 
so,  except  theoretically  and  while  the  "faire  ladye"  re- 
mained a  mere  poetic  abstraction  for  life's  pleasure. 

Nevertheless,  the  monkish  scribes  did  one  thing  for 
fiction  perhaps  more  important  than  all  their  meddling 
damage.  They  restored  to  it  what  it  had  not  possessed 
since  Egyptian  times,  a  frankly  conscious  purpose  be- 
yond the  tale  itself.  And  that  purpose  was  the  one  that 
to  them  seemed  the  highest.  Never  a  monkish  tale,  even 
though  it  be  the  madness  of  Hamlet  or  the  impish  pranks 
of  Friar  Rush,  but  ends  with  its  "Here  you  may  see  how" 
sjame  evil  strives  against  some  good  and  meets  final  and, 
fitting  punishment.  Stories,  the  monks  resolved,  were 
ho  longer  to  be  mere  tales  of  pleasure,  snares  of  the  evil 
one,  luring  men  to  idleness;  on  the  contrary,  they  were 
to  become  the  weapons  of  righteousness,  tricking  foolish 
folks  into  good,  and  making  sermons  popular.  Defoe  had 
not  forgotten  this  when  he  wrote  "Colonel  Jacque,"  nor 
had  Richardson  in  his  "Pamela." 

Even  amid  all  this  babble  and  circumlocution,  this  falsi- 
fication of  the  earlier  truth  to  life,  in  the  interests  of  a 
very  commendable  moral  purpose,  despite  all  this,  the 
conception  of  a  story's  central  unity  was  slowly  making 
its  way.  Boccaccio  had  the  idea,  and  he  seems  to  be  the 
first  modern  man  who  did  possess  it  with  any  approach 
to  clearness.  Several  of  Boccaccio's  tales  of  two  or  three 

79 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

thousand  words  are  perfect  in  this  branch  of  technical 
art.  The  celebrated  story  of  Federigo  and  his  falcon  is 
a  model  of  the  development  and  dominance  of  one  idea 
clearly  expressed,  self -justified,  teaching,  and  convincing. 
So  is  the  less-known  tale  of  "Anastasio,"  or  that  of 
"Nathan  and  Mitridanes."  True,  when  Boccaccio 
attempts  a  longer  narrative  he,  too,  substitutes  variety  for 
unity.  Even  in  the  celebrated  tale  of  "Cimon  and  Iphi- 
genia"  this  becomes  marked  in  the  introduction  of  Lysi- 
machus,  who  assumes  the  leadership  of  the  latter  part  of 
the  story.  Given  a  single  "action,"  the  master  handled  it 
with  instinctive  truth  to  art;  but  where  he  interwove 
several  threads,  he  was  very  apt  to  shift  his  central 
thought,  to  abandon  the  main  action  for  another. 

Mr.  Howells,  in  his  "Literature  and  Life,"  has  some 
comments  on  Boccaccio  which  may  be  of  aid  here  in 
explaining  this  lack  of  unity.  He  suggests  that  the  usually 
acknowledged  perfection  of  these  tales  is  philological 
rather  than  artistic,  that  in  both  character  study  and  reve- 
lation of  life  they  lack  depth.  "They  amuse,  but  they 
do  not  hold  the  mind  and  stamp  it  with  large  and  pro- 
found impressions."1  This  is  perhaps  merely  another  way 
of  saying  that  life  has  deepened  since  the  fourteenth  cen- 
tury ;  and  if  the  criticism  points  a  weakness,  it  also  recog- 
nizes a  merit  in  the  faithfulness  of  the  stories  to  their 
own  time.  Boccaccio's  Florentine  contemporaries,  we 
may  be  sure,  did  not  find  his  viewpoint  superficial. 

As  to  style  as  shown  in  mechanical  arrangement,  the 
tales  of  the  "Decameron"  have  a  regular  formula  for 
opening  and  closing,  which  becomes  almost  negligent  in 

*Vide  "Literature  and  Life,"  1902,  p.  115. 

80 


THE  MEDIEVAL  CONGLOMERATES 

its  repetition.  At  a  certain  time,  in  a  certain  place,  dwelt 
a  person  who  lived  such  and  such  a  life,  and  now  was 
come  to  such  and  such  a  pass,  when — something  happens 
to  him  and  the  story  is  fully  on  its  way.  Here  is,  at  least, 
a  clear  eye  to  the  necessity  of  getting  preliminaries 
promptly  settled,  and  a  series  of  causes  and  effects  fairly 
started.  So,  too,  this  series  is  followed  to  its  end,  though 
often  in  the  author's  longer  work  through  wholly  detached 
episodes  and  ramifications.  Background  is  also  supplied 
in  its  true  subordinate  employment  of  intensifying  the 
"atmosphere"  or  "motive"  of  the  story.  Cimon  passes 
through  a  beautiful  landscape  before  meeting  and  being 
inspired  by  Iphigenia.  No  one  has  ever  denied  that 
Boccaccio  was  a  genius.  His  technique  is  the  best  the 
Middle  Ages  have  to  offer. 

Or  perhaps  we  should  rank  with  him  his  English  suc- 
cessor, Chaucer,  of  whose  short  tales  a  similar  commenda- 
tion might  be  uttered.  The  two  masters  are  much  alike 
in  their  technique ;  though  with  Chaucer  the  form  is  apt 
to  be  less  perfect — poetry  naturally  digresses  from  story 
telling  for  its  own  poetic  purposes — and  the  character 
portrayal  covers  a  broader  field,  is  more  easy  and  nat- 
ural, more  simply  true  to  common  human  life. 

This,  then,  is  what  the  short  mediaeval  tales  seem  to 
offer  as  an  approach  to  the  novel : 

l'  Plot~ mere    anecdotes     lead    with 
Toward  the  well-chosen  details  straight  to  a  climax. 

Novel  but  length  still  produces  diffuseness  in- 

stead of  depth  and  intensification.     A 
tale  can  not  be  long  without  being  heterogeneous. 
2.  Motive — often,  especially  with  Boccaccio,  a  real  de- 
Si 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

sire  to  portray  life.  The  verisimilitude  is  intuitive  and 
unconscious  in  the  earlier  days  among  the  people,  pre- 
served by  a  few  master-spirits,  but  weakening  in  most 
tales  as  they  were  worked  into  literary  form  by  monk- 
ish scribes.  Moral  purpose  became  more  important  than 
artistic  truth. 

3.  Character  portrayal — this  rises  to  a  high  art  with 
Boccaccio  and  Chaucer;  even  character  development  is 
sometimes  dealt  with,  though  not  as  a  central  theme. 

4.  Emotional  excitement — given  full  value.    The  later 
stories  centre  round  it,  though  some  of  our  critics  suggest 
that  these  writers  dealt  with  shallower  human  souls  and  in 
a  more  superficial  way  than  modern  authors. 

5.  Background — wholly  neglected  in  the  earlier  narra- 
tives, and  little  dealt  with  before  the  Canterbury  Tales. 
It  assumes  with  the  masters  something  of  its  true  artistic 
function. 

6.  Style — the  necessary  arrangement  is  understood  with 
a  surety  apt  to  drop  into  careless  formula ;  the  wording  is 
"philological  perfection."1 

Wide  Howells'  "Literature  and  Life,"  1902,  p.  116. 


82 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  MODERN  NOVEL 

The  With  the  culmination  of  the  fiction  of 

Period  of  the  Middle  Ages— that  is,  with  the 

"Amadis"  and  the  "Decameron"  or  per- 
haps the  "Canterbury  Tales" — each  of  the  elements  of  the 
novel  had  been  at  one  time  or  another  artistically  con- 
ceived, had  been  carefully  studied  and  consciously  em- 
ployed. Even  the  novel  plot,  the  clinging  to  a  single 
movement,  the  converging  of  all  the  threads  toward  a 
common  end,  with  accompanying  emotional  intensity  and 
cumulative  power,  even  this  had  seemed  for  a  moment 
almost  established  in  the  "Nibelungenlied."  All  that  re- 
mained was  that  this  one  element,  plot,  should  be  fully 
recognized,  and  the  others  employed  not  separately,  but 
conjointly,  and  all  combined  in  a  single  work. 

Again  and  again  was  this  combination  closely  ap- 
proached ;  but  for  nearly  three  centuries  it  was  not  wholly 
reached,  its  desirability  was  not  fully  recognized.  From 
"Amadis"  onward  there  exist  a  dozen  works  which  by 
just  a  little  laxity  in  our  requirements  might  be  called,  as 
each  of  them  has  been  by  some  thoughtful  critic,  the  first 
modern  novel. 

What  these  seem  to  lack  at  first  is  not  only  concentra- 
tion of  plot,  but,  even  more,  verisimilitude.  The  success- 
ors of  Boccaccio  and  Chaucer  did  not  cling  to  the  masters' 
clear  conception  of  the  high  worthiness  of  truth.  Stories, 

83 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

not  satisfied  with  presenting  this,  persisted  in  being  some- 
thing more  than  pictures  of  life.  Thus  even  in  Eliza- 
/bethan  England,  Sidney's  "Arcadia"  was  romantic  and 
pastoral — that  is,  extravagant  and  fantastic,  built  of  many 
tales  instead  of  one;  Lyly's  "Euphues"  taught  rhetoric, 
and  so  padded  a  short  story  into  a  volume  by  the  "art 
of  the  tongue."  Even  Robert  Greene's  simpler  narra- 
tives wandered  and  became  wholly  Euphuistic.  Only 
Nash's  "The  Unfortunate  Traveller"  should,  according 
to  M.  Jusserand,  be  regarded  as  a  genuine  novel. 

"The  Unfortunate  Traveller"  is  merely  the  first  Eng- 
lish  example   of  a   form   previously   developed   by  the 
Spaniards,    the    "picaresque    romance." 
Picaresque  The  nation  which  had  already  given  the 

world  one  original  literary  form  in 
"Amadis  of  Gaul"  and  was  later  to  originate  "Don 
Quixote,"  presented  us  also  with  a  third  creation  in 
"Lazarillo  de  Tonnes."  In  this  work,  published  in  1554, 
or  in  its  forgotten  predecessors  if  such -once  existed,  was 
offered  for  the  first  time  in  modern  fiction  the  detailed 
narrative  of  the  actual  life  of  a  common  man,  instead  of 
the  imaginary  existence  of  ideal  knights.  How  should 
this  lengthy  commonplace  be  made  interesting  to  readers 
of  romance?  What  excitement  could  be  substituted  for 
victorious  battles  and  ever  changing  pageantry?  The 
author  of  Lazarillo  solved  the  problem  by  making  his  hero 
a  rogue  and  detailing  all  his  clever  rogueries. 

Thus  verisimilitude  was  brought  once  more  to  the  front. 
Since  the  scene  was  to  be  placed  amid  common  life,  the 
audience  would  be  shrewd  judges  of  its  accuracy.  They 
must  be  convinced  that  the  hero's  rogueries  were  not  only 


THE  MODERN  NOVEL 

clever  but  really  possible,  such  as  might  have  been  played 
upon  the  listener  himself.  This  then  is  what  the  pica- 
resque romance  contributed  toward  more  modern  ideas  of 
fiction — a  stern  necessity  laid  upon  the  writer  to  deal  with 
life  exactly  as  he  found  it. 

But  verisimilitude  by  itself  can  not  constitute  a  novel; 
and  in  other  ways  the  picaresque  tale  was  rather  a  retro- 
gression from  the  romance  of  chivalry.  It  was  less 
tempted,  of  course,  toward  wandering  away  with  heroic 
strangers  newly  introduced;  and  thus  it  was  compara- 
tively short  and  came  nearer  to  unity  of  plot.  But  on  the 
other  hand,  with  the  loss  of  the  love  interest,  the  usual 
form  of  emotional  excitement,  it  almost  ceased  to  have  a 
plot  at  all,  and  tended  to  become  a  mere  string  of  inci- 
dents again.  Even  "Gil  Bias,"  the  apotheosis  of  the  rogue 
story,  has  no  real  plot  interest  to  connect  its  skillfully 
constructed  incidents. 

Character  study  and  background  become  much  more 
noteworthy.  The  return  to  common  life  brought  with  it 
the  depicting  of  the  different  ways  and  moods  of  common 
men.  "Lazarillo  de  Tormes"  is  more  valuable  than  any 
history,  in  revealing  to  us  the  Spain  which  Philip  II  had 
left  behind  him.  Indeed  this  bitter  outlining  of  his  own 
times  seems  often  to  have  been  the  picaresque  writer's 
real  purpose.  He  is  satirist  and  prophet  quite  as  much  as 
mere  tale-teller. 

The  picaresque  romance,  then,  might  be 
summarized  as  follows;  and  it  is  clear 
Fiction  ^at  we  must  advance  yet  farther  before 

we  find  the  completed  novel: 
i.  Plot — fallen  back  into  a  mere  string  of  incidents. 

85 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

But  these  improve  in  one  way  on  the  chivalric 
romance  by  being  told  more  often  about  the  same 
person. 

2.  Motive — seems  mainly  to  present  common  life,  often 
to  protest  against  its  evils.    Verisimilitude  thus  becomes 
the  most  important  element  of  all,  though  in  some  of  the 
tales  critics  believe  the  scenes  are  much  exaggerated  be- 
cause of  the  satiric  purpose  of  the  writer. 

3.  Character  portrayal — more  fully  detailed  than  ever 
before,  though  still  external,  dealing  almost  wholly  with 
men's  vices  and  follies,  as  seen  by  the  eye. 

4.  Emotional  excitement — abandoned,  perhaps  in  re- 
action against  its  exaggeration  in  the  chivalric  romance. 

5.  Background — prominent,    sometimes    seeming    the 
real  subject  of  the  tale. 

6.  Style — usually  witty  and  lively,  with  a  clear  con- 
ception of  how  to  reach  its  audience;  but  sometimes  re- 
suming the  wandering  pomposity  of  the  chivalric  romance. 

The  emotional  intensity  so  completely  lacking  in  the 
picaresque  tales,  somewhat  reappears  in  that  other  Span- 
Don  Quixote  ish  creation>  "Don  Quixote"  (1605). 
Cervantes'  own  increasing  affection  for 
the  Knight  of  La  Mancha  leads  the  creator  to  make  the 
later  adventures  of  his  creature  more  dignified,  more 
earnest,  less  of  a  wild  whirlwind  of  burlesque.  He  is 
more  imposed  on  from  without,  but  less  ludicrous  within. 
And  this  gradual  deepening  and  saddening  of  the  tone 
lends  vaguely  the  effect  of  unity  of  purpose  and  unin- 
tended plot.  Perhaps  we  might  even  go  so  far  as  to  sug- 
gest that  we  have  here  the  first  budding  of  the  "character 
plot"  which  aims  to  become  the  groundwork  of  the  novel 

86 


THE  MODERN  NOVEL 

of  the  future,  as  opposed  to  the  shallower,  external,  "story 
plot"  of  the  past.  But  the  character  development  in  "Don 
Quixote"  is  very  vague,  and  the  book  must  stand  as  an 
isolated  burst  of  genius  without  precedent  or  immediate 
successor.  As  a  story  it  offers  the  reader  a  mere  medley 
of  incidents,  whose  succession  and  connection  seem  to 
have  been  matter  of  accident  with  the  writer. 

In  France  the  "lighter"  reading  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury consisted  of  the  voluminous  chivalric  and  pastoral 
romances,  such  as  the  "Diana"  of  Monte- 
The  mayor.    These  were  fantastic  and  utterly 

unreal.     Moreover  they  were  quite  con- 
Romances  ,  e          .        . 
tent  to  adopt  the  haphazard  formation  of 

their  predecessors.  In  this  idle  rambling  they  were  en- 
couraged by  the  revival  of  the  Greek  romances,  which, 
from  about  1550  onward,  were  reprinted  and  for  a  time 
won  considerable  popularity.  Even  Madame  Lafayette, 
much  as  she  did  for  the  novel,  had  nothing  to  offer  in 
improved  construction.  In  reading  her  first  publication, 
"Zaide,"  we  might  easily  imagine  ourselves  back  in  the 
days  of  the  Greek  tale  of  Heliodorus,  with  its  love-im- 
pelled wanderings  in  strange  lands,  its  digressions,  its  in- 
trusions of  wholly  extraneous  tales,  and  then  its  feeble 
shadow  of  a  love  plot  settled  in  the  end. 

Madame  Lafayette's  "Princess  of  Cleves"  also,  though 
Frenchmen  call  it  the  first  modern  novel,1  has  only  a 
vague  and  wavering  plot.    Action  scarce 
Princess  of  exists  in  it.     The  scandalous  chronicles 

Cleves  of  the  time  tell  us  that  the  lady  was 

painting  her  own  love  affair  with   La  Rochefoucauld. 

Published  1678. 

87 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

And  since  the  real  event  was  but  a  scattered,  feeble, 
and  ineffective  performance,  what  can  we  possibly  ex- 
pect of  its  paper  shadow?  The  narrative  runs  con- 
stantly into  little  side  anecdotes  and  sarcasms;  it  is 
padded  with  pictures  of  the  life  and  personages  of  the 
court.  The  heroine  is  often  forgotten  as  one  reads ;  the 
hero  wholly  so. 

The  advance  made  by  this  work  of  Madame  Lafayette 
was  in  character  study.  The  analysis  of  human  feelings 
and  motives  is  keen  and  true,  and  reaches  a  minuteness 
unknown  before.  To  say  that  the  author  first  created  the 
novel  by  substituting  real  life  for  fantasy,  is  to  neglect  the 
picaresque  tales.  What  she  did  was  to  bring  real  life  into 
the  story  of  the  court,  when  it  had  only  previously  ex- 
isted in  the  stories  of  the  people.  In  thus  applying 
the  "seeing  eye"  to  beings  more  cultivated  and  complex, 
she  transferred  observation  from  the  exterior  to  the 
interior,  from  action  to  thought,  from  the  body  to 
the  soul.  Such  plot  as  her  work  possesses  depends 
wholly  upon  emotion,  deals  with  the  real  "tempests  of 
the  heart." 

Her  story  does  not,  in  fact,  cling  with  special  closeness 
to  truth  of  external  life.  One  wearies  of  hearing  that 
each  of  the  lords  is  attractive,  and  each  of  the  ladies 
beautiful,  and  that  love  is  the  dominant  passion  of  every 
mind.  One  doubts  if  this  can  be  strictly  so  even  in  the 
court  of  France,  and  feels  that  Madame  Lafayette  is  still 
somewhat  under  the  influence  of  the  extravagant  ro- 
mances from  which  she  broke  away.  But  this  is  a  minor 
point.  All  that  the  "Princess  of  Cleves"  really  lacks  of 
being  a  completed  novel  is  greater  concentration  of  pur- 


THE  MODERN  NOVEL 

pose,  the  clinging  to  a  single  aim,  the  unity  which  we  have 
demanded  of  the  novel's  plot.1 

A  summary  of  this   famous  book  would,  therefore, 
stand  as  follows: 

1.  Plot — a  true  tracing  of  cause  to  consequence,  inter- 
weaving threads  that  gather  with  rising  emotion  to  a 
climax.    But  much  extraneous  matter  interrupts  and  al- 
most destroys  the  movement  of  the  plot. 

2.  Motive — the  expression  of  the  writer's  own  emo- 
tion, the  study  of  her  own  heart.    The  verisimilitude  thus 
becomes  very  marked  in  contrast  to  the  lack  of  it  in  the 
tale's  direct  antecedents,  though  truth  is  unconsidered  in 
some  externals. 

3.  Character  portrayal — a  minute,  searching  and  much 
admired  analysis  of  motives  and  feelings.    In  the  central 
figure  there  is  even  some  development  of  character. 

4.  Emotional  excitement — perhaps  somewhat  shallow, 
but  true  and  cumulative  in  effect. 

5.  Background — somewhat  too  much  enlarged. 

6.  Style — cultured  and  artistic,  with  a  marked  change 
toward  simplicity,  in  contrast  to  the  extravagance  of  the 
court  romance. 

If  one  places  side  by  side  the  series  of  summaries  by 

which  I  have  endeavored  to  mark  a  rough  path  along  a 

somewhat  doubtful  road,  it  will  be  seen 

Developm'Tt  of    that  UP  to  this  P°int  '"^  had  always 

Human  Thought  meant  heterogeneousness.    A  few  of  the 

old  Sagas  of  the  North  did  indeed  in 

their  sadness  and  their  sternness  obtain  some  degree  of 

*I  am  inclined  also  to  insist  that  the  true  novel  can  not  deal 
wholly  with  such  exalted  personages  as  does  the  "Princess  of 

89 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

unity;  they  sought  the  single,  soul-compelling  power  of 
gathering  tragedy,  rather  than  the  change  and  bright- 
ness of  comedy, 

"As  loving  ever  endeth  in  sorrow  after  all."1 

But  elsewhere  in  the  world,  writers  of  fiction  seemed  to 
have  small  faith  in  the  general  reader's  persistency,  or  in- 
tensity of  interest.  They  sought  to  relieve  the  effort  in- 
volved in  following  a  lengthy  tale.  They  planned  to  at- 
tract, not  to  control;  to  please  by  parts,  not  master  by 
a  whole.  In  a  word  their  aim  was  not  for  unity,  but  for 
variety. 

Perhaps  this  was  necessary  in  an  uncultured  age,  when 
thought  was  still  slow,  education  scanty,  and  long  tales 
were  sung  or  read  aloud,  and  spread  over  many  days.  But 
life  was  changing  and  growing  deeper;  and  just  that  in- 
tensifying of  the  underlying  thought  was  needed  to  bring 
order  out  of  mediaeval  confusion.  A  mediaeval  romance 
had  a  hundred  episodes,  each  leading  the  reader  down  a 
different  path.  Under  the  stimulus  of  intenser  feeling, 
all  these  episodes  have  at  length  learned  to  head  one  way, 
to  be  but  so  many  guide  posts  pointing  to  the  one  inevi- 
table end.  Unity  is  stronger  than  variety ;  and  the  recog- 
nition of  this  truth  in  fiction,  the  last  change  necessary  to 
create  the  modern  novel,  could  not  in  the  world  of  the 
seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries  have  been  much 
longer  delayed. 

Cleves."  Its  central  figures  must  be  not  dukes  and  princesses 
but  characters  from  common  life,  with  whose  feelings  and  ex- 
periences the  reader  may  be  in  sympathy,  measuring  them  by  his 
own  mind. 

'Vide  Zarncke's  edition  "Nibelungenlied,"  p.  363,  line  8,  "als  ie 
diu  liebe  leide  an  dem  ende  gerne  git." 

90 


THE  MODERN  NOVEL 

It  remained  naturally  for  the  North,  with  its  steadier 
earnestness  and  slower  wit,  to  arouse  this  final  impulse, 
to  give  strength  of  purpose  its  true  dominance  over  swift- 
ness of  fancy,  to  feel  more  fully  the  insistence  of  a  single 
motive,  and  teach  the  world  that,  despite  its  length,  the 
novel,  the  master-novel,  must  be  a  unit. 

Traces  of  this  teaching  may  be  gathered  in  the  Eng- 
lish literature  of  the  seventeenth  century,  when  Mrs. 
Behn  or  Aphra  Johnson,  as  she  was  then 

IJproacftothe  called'  WrOte  her  "Oroonoko."  Com- 
Modern  Novel  pared  to  more  modern  novels,  this  is 
but  a  short  work,  some  thirty  thousand 
words.  It  has  a  slight  foundation  on  fact,  and  tells  of 
Miss  Johnson's  meeting  in  the  West  Indies  with  Oroono- 
ko. an  African  negro  prince  who  had  been  made  a  slave. 
It  dwells  on  the  heroism  and  sufferings  of  Oroonoko, 
closing  with  his  death  and  that  of  his  negro  wife.  It  is 
open  to  doubt  whether  Miss  Johnson's  original  purpose  in 
writing  was  not  to  show  what  a  fine  lady  she  herself  was, 
of  what  aristocratic  ancestry  and  poetic  sentiments.  Yet 
as  she  proceeded  with  her  work,  the  artist  sense  dominated 
her,  what  she  had  seen  or  imagined  of  the  horrors  of 
slavery  in  the  Indies  preempted  her  soul,  pettier  passions 
were  swept  to  the  wall,  and  she  painted  Oroonoko's  suf- 
ferings, his  rebellion,  his  tragic  death,  with  a  directness 
and  vigor  which  were  new  to  literature.  The  reader  can 
not  escape;  he  is  in  the  grasp  of  genius,  a  voice  "crying 
in  the  wilderness" ;  and  when  he  reaches  the  end  and  lays 
the  book  aside,  it  may  be  with  small  sense  of  pleasure, 
but  it  is  with  one  single,  vivid,  unmistakable  impression,  ' 
which  no  earlier  romance  could  have  produced. 

91 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

Alas,  Miss  Johnson  had  builded  better  than  she  knew. 
Her  book  was  a  great  success,  but  she  seems  not  to  have 
comprehended  why.  She  wrote  other  novels,  and  plays 
too,  lazy,  coarse  creations,  disconnected  episodes  of  love 
adventures,  with  no  trace  of  that  flash  of  earnestness 
which  had  made  her  first  effort  a  unit  and  a  master- 
piece. 

Other  English  story  writers,  male  and  female,  took  her 
worst  work  as  an  example,  and  wrote  worse  than  she. 
But  the  genius  for  unity  had  arisen  in  the  nation.  The 
path  which  she  had  deserted,  was  open  to  whoever  should 
stumble  on  it.  John  Bunyan  wrote  his  "Pilgrim's  Prog- 
ress" (1678).  We  may  bar  this  from  the  catalogue  of 
novels  if  we  choose,  and  call  it  an  allegory  or  a  sermon. 
It  is  certainly  not  a  tale  of  actual  life,  its  characters  are 
frankly  types,  not  individuals.  Dragons  do  not  face  us 
physically  in  our  city  streets,  nor  do  giants  dwell  in  caves 
along  our  country  roads.  Yet,  if  we  reject  "Pil- 
grim's Progress"  as  a  novel,  we  must  not  lose  its  liter- 
ary lesson,  that  earnestness  of  purpose,  single  minded- 
ness,  was  what  the  novel  needed,  was  the  one  thing  that 
could  make  it  other  than  a  bundle  of  short  stories  tied 
together. 

"Pilgrim's  Progress"  is  only  the  story  of  one  man ;  but 
every  step  that  man  takes  is  toward  a  goal.  Every  sen- 
tence within  the  book  helps  him  to  that  goal  or  holds  him 
from  it.  Not  one  word  is  introduced  to  show  the  author's 
skill  or  wit,  or  to  tell  us  one  fact,  however  interesting, 
that  does  not  bear  upon  the  central  purpose.  And  the 
result  is  that  the  ignorant  tinker's  book  will  be  read  for- 
ever. Whether  men  believe  his  preaching  or  no,  matters 

92 


THE  MODERN  NOVEL 

not;  they  can  not  but  believe  that  with  all  his  soul  he 
meant  the  thing  he  said.1 

Story  tellers  did  not  immediately  follow  Bunyan's  guid- 
ance any  more  than  Mrs.  Behn's.  Probably  most  of  them 
did  not  read  his  work.  But  the  central  idea  was  in  the  air. 
Intensity  of  purpose  had  produced  unity ;  it  would  do  so 
again,  perhaps  in  a  shape  more  tasteful  to  curious  palates 
than  an  ignorant  tinker's  sermon,  or  a  blast  against  the 
profitable  horrors  of  the  slave  trade.  In  France,  Prevost's 
"Manon  Lescaut"  came  very  close  to  this  intensity.  In 
England  Defoe  is  clamorous  to  assure  us  that  he  possesses 
it.  Not  one  of  his  tales,  "Moll  Flanders,"  "Colonel 
Jacque,"  even  "Roxana"  itself,  but  is  replete  with  pas- 
sages and  weighted  with  introductions  that  tell  us  of  the 
author's  earnest  moral  purpose.  He  assures  us  with  vows 
of  eager  fervor  that  he  writes  solely  and  only  to  teach  us  ^ 
the  wickedness  of  vice,  and  not  with  the  faintest  thought 
of  his  rapidly  bulging  pocket. 

This  assurance  may  be  partly  true.  The  general  de- 
mand of  the  day  for  stories  was  flooding  London  with 
accounts  of  highwaymen  and  other  rogues,  painted  in 
most  attractive  colors.  Defoe  may  have  honestly  planned 
to  counteract  these  by  showing  the  real  wickedness  and 
misery  of  such  courses.  But  if  so,  his  own  vivacity  and 
faithfulness  to  actual  life  prevented  his  books  from  being  yC 
quite  such  convincing  sermons  as  he  intended. 

Mention  ought  also  be  made  of  Bunyan's  "Life  and  Death  of 
Mr.  Badman,"  which  has  the  same  high  merit  of  intensity  to  lead 
it  toward  unity  of  form.  Like  "Don  Quixote"  it  contains  a  plot 
of  character  rather  than  one  of  action ;  and  while  it  is  scarcely  a 
tale  at  all,  it  is  most  interesting  and  noteworthy  in  its  presenta- 
tion of  character  development. 

93 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

His  work  must  therefore  be  classed  with  the  picaresque 
tales  which  it  reprobates,  and  of  which  "Gil  Bias" 
was  the  culmination.  Defoe  tells  nothing  more  than 
the  detached  adventures  of  one  person.  He  does, 
however,  cling  closely  to  that  person,  tracing  the  entire 
life  from  birth  until  the  moment  when  in  old  age 
the  repentant  sinner  is  pictured  as  sitting  down  to 
write. 

One  other  advance  should  also  be  credited  to  Defoe. 
So  strong  is  his  sense  of  personality,  that  having  striven 
to  become  Colonel  Jacque  or  another  before  taking  pen 
in  hand,  he  never  deserts  his  part  until  the  book  is  fin- 
ished. If  some  one  else's  story  is  dragged  into  the  tale, 
at  least  the  interpolation  is  not  told  by  its  own  hero  in 
fashion  utterly  detached;  the  narrative  is  repeated  by 
Colonel  Jacque  as  he  heard  it,  modified  by  his  personality, 
his  views,  his  interruptions.  The  reader  is  never  per- 
mitted to  forget  him  in  any  temporary  interest  in 
another. 

From  Defoe  the  next  step  is  to  1740  and  Richardson's 

"Pamela."    No  one  has  ever  denied  that  in  "Pamela"  we 

have  a  completed  novel.     It  possesses 

Pamela  each  of  the  essentiai  elements.     On  the 

other  hand  no  one  comparing  "Pamela"  with  more  recent 
works  would  assert  that  it  is  a  completed  masterpiece. 
We  have  swept  far  enough  away  now  from  Richardson's 
influence,  to  admit  that  his  book  is  mawkish,  its  sentiment 
is  false,  the  heroine's  honor  is  but  a  tradesman's  com- 
modity, holding  out  for  the  highest  market  price  and  then 
rushing  at  its  bargain.  Yet  the  book  can  never  be  pushed 
from  its  place  of  importance  as  a  pioneer.  It  is  histor- 

94 


THE  MODERN  NOVEL 

ically  great  because  its  tremendous  popularity  turned  all 
the  world  to  thinking  of  novels,  to  demanding  them.  It 
opened  the  floodgates;  and  novels  good,  bad,  and  indif- 
ferent, began  the  deluge  with  which  they  have  overflowed 
the  world.  "Pamela"  revealed  a  new  literary  road  to 
popular  favor  and  prosperity.1 

Why  "Pamela's"  immediate  success?  What  new  thing 
did  it  contain?  To  be  sure  it  appealed  strongly  to  femi- 
nine readers;  but  then  many  of  its  successors  achieved 
equal  popularity  by  calling  on  the  other  side  of  the  house. 
It  was  keen  and  sure  in  its  character  analysis ;  but  so  had 
been  the  work  of  Le  Sage,2  and  of  Madame  Lafayette, 
and  Marivaux,  or  one  might  suggest  Mrs.  Manley  among 
English  writers. 

What  "Pamela"  had  and  what  the  other  works  lacked, 
was  just  this  cardinal  principle  of  unity,  which,  in  Rich- 
ardson's case  at  least,  arose  from  the  real  moral  elevation  •* 
and  deep  religious  spirit  of  the  author.     His  book  had 
all  that  we  have  been  insisting  the  novel  must  possess: 
a  strong  and  persistent  purpose  on  the  writer's  part;  a 
real  sympathy  with  and  understanding  of  his  fellow  be-    ^ 
ings ;  a  cumulative  emotional  intensity  in  the  steadily  in- 
sistent appeal  to  love,  pity  and  curiosity ;  and  rising  from 
these,  a  single  unified  plot  whose  action  begins  at  the  com- 

*In  speaking  of  "Pamela"  it  should  be  emphasized  that  only 
the  first  two  volumes  are  referred  to.  The  two  which  Richardson 
afterward  added,  have  no  part  in  the  real  story  and  had  nothing 
to  do  with  its  success.  They  were  merely  a  business  attempt  to 
trade  on  the  popularity  of  the  book. 

2In  this  connection  Le  Sage's  "Asmodeus"  should  not  be 
forgotten.  Its  character  studies,  while  quite  as  keen  as  those 
in  "Gil  Bias,"  are  more  fully  rounded,  more  deliberately  de- 
tached and  presented  for  their  own  interest. 

95 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

mencement  and  moves  onward,  never  lost,  never  forgot- 
ten, never  neglected,  until  the  end  is  reached. 

"Pamela,"  then,  may  serve  well  as  the  dividing  point 

toward  which  all  earlier  fiction  had  been  unconsciously 

.  making  its  long  climb,  from  which  all 

later  fiction  consciously  dates  its  origin. 


Having  reached  the  parting  of  the  ways  let  us  look  back 
briefly  over  the  devious  and  often  doubtful  road.  Such  a 
review  may  itself  be  tabulated  into  a  series  of  results  as 
follows,  taking  the  less  intricate  matters  first. 

Style. — The  method  of  putting  thoughts  into  language 
and  arranging  them  in  effective  form  and  sequence  was 
very  crude  in  early  Egyptian  tales,  but  reached  a  fairly 
high  development  in  their  later  period,  and  tended  to  be- 
come formulized.  The  Greeks  went  through  a  somewhat 
similar  progress  from  crudity  to  a  rhetorical  perfection 
which  the  moderns  have  not  surpassed,  except  perhaps 
that  both  Greeks  and  Egyptians  erred,  as  enthusiastic  stu- 
dents will,  in  over-elaboration.  Greek  fiction  also  tended 
to  become  formulized,  though  rather  in  ideas  than  in 
words.  Mediaeval  fiction  began  once  more  at  the  begin- 
ning and  rose  through  the  same  increasing  skill  to  over- 
elaboration,  almost  to  formulization  in  the  chivalric 
romances.  Then  the  pendulum  swung  back  toward  sim- 
plicity. As  early  as  the  fourteenth  century,  style  had 
reached  in  the  tales  of  Boccaccio  "philological  per- 
fection." 

Background. — This  was  unconsidered  and  accidental 
in  Egyptian  fiction,  but  had  already  become  prominent 
among  the  Greeks  in  the  earliest  of  their  surviving  tales. 
In  Heliodorus  there  was  a  glimmering  of  the  true  use  of 

96 


THE  MODERN  NOVEL 

background,  the  accentuation  of  the  deeper  qualities  of 
the  tale ;  but  background  became  exaggerated  among  the 
later  Greeks,  until  they  indulged  in  the  wholly  extraneous 
"scene  painting"  of  the  Sophists.  Early  mediaeval  fiction, 
in  its  youthful  interest  in  life,  was  quite  as  much  inter- 
ested in  scenes  as  in  emotional  events,  so  made  a  central 
subject  of  themes  which  would  now  be  treated  only  as 
background.  Gradually  the  interest  in  such  descriptions 
waned;  they  lost  place;  and  it  was  not  until  Boccaccio 
that  their  true  use  was  established.  In  the  picaresque 
tales,  background  assumed  a  new  and  perhaps  over-prom- 
inent aspect,  since  these  were  deliberate  attempts  to  pic- 
ture the  various  scenes  of  common  life.  The  pastoral 
romance  also  dealt  in  "scenes,"  in  this  case  landscapes, 
unconnected  with  the  tale.  Even  in  the  "Princess  of 
Cleves"  the  details  of  court  life  seem  to  be  elaborated 
for  their  own  sake ;  and  not  until  we  reach  "Pamela"  does 
background  resume  its  true  subordination  to  emotion. 

Emotional  excitement. — Passion  was  scarce  existent  in 
Egyptian  fiction.  It  began  faintly  in  the  earliest  Greek 
tales.  Love  gradually  became  asserted  as  the  master  pas- 
sion, was  used  at  first  to  string  adventures  together,  then 
dominated  and  superseded  adventure  as  the  chief  th^me. 
The  emotional  intensity,  however,  was  never  persistent 
and  cumulative  through  the  entire  tale,  except  perhaps  in 
Longus,  and  there  not  clearly  so.  Mediaeval  fiction  went 
through  the  same  course.  "Beowulf"  shows  no  emo- 
tional excitement  in  the  breasts  of  its  heroes ;  the  "Song 
of  Roland"  has  a  little,  but  the  emotion  is  still  only  per- 
sonal, vainglorious.  In  the  "Nibelungenlied"  emotion 
comes  nigh  to  dominating  life.  In  the  tales  of  Launcelot 

97 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

it  does  so,  while  Tristram's  story  is  wholly  devoted  to 
the  sufferings  caused  by  emotion,  by  the  intensity  of  love. 
But,  as  before,  the  passion  was  not  cumulative,  it  was 
roused  again  and  again  only  to  be  dismissed  for  other  pas- 
sion; and  then  came  "Amadis"  and  such  romances,  bur- 
lesquing love;  and  then  picaresque  tales  ignoring  almost 
all  emotions.  Not  until  the  "Princess  of  Cleves"  do  we 
find  the  persistent,  cumulative,  emotional  intensity  char- 
acteristic of  the  modern  novel.  Not  until  "Pamela"  was 
this  employed  in  its  fullest  effect.  Here  at  least,  the  line 
of  development  seems  steady,  and  closely  allied  with  the 
growth  of  civilization. 

Character  portrayal. — We  can  not  feel  positive  that 
Egyptian  fiction  ever  at  any  time  took  thought  of  person- 
ality. Up  to  the  last  its  characters  remain  utterly  incon- 
sistent. Greek  romance  painted  carefully;  it  saw  with 
the  eye  and  gave  elaborate  outward  descriptions.  More- 
over, its  old  men  always  acted  as  old  men,  its  rascals,  as 
rascals.  That  is,  it  was  true  to  the  type,  but  with  no  sense 
of  the  individual.  The  earliest  modern  fiction  was  also 
true  to  the  type,  possibly  because  it  was  nearer  history 
than  fiction,  for  it  soon  lost  this  verisimilitude,  and  its 
characters  became  plot-ridden,  like  the  Egyptian  puppets. 
The  short  prose  tales  went  back  close  to  life,  and  Boc- 
caccio and  Chaucer  give  us  well  studied  character  pic- 
tures. In  Boccaccio  there  is  even  character  development, 
though  perhaps  of  a  rather  shallow  kind.  After  that, 
character  study  was  never  wholly  neglected.  Even  the 
later  chivalric  romances  had  something  of  it;  the  pica- 
resque tales  made  it  one  chief  object ;  Madame  Lafayette 
transferred  it  from  the  body  to  the  mind,  and  introduced 


THE  MODERN  NOVEL 

the  minute  analysis  that  Marivaux  and  then  "Pamela" 
carried  to  its  fullest  height.  Here,  too,  therefore,  the 
line  of  development  seems  steady,  and  coincident  with 
the  development  of  man. 

Motive. — Toward  verisimilitude  fiction  does  not  seem 
to  offer  any  steady  progress.  If  one  drew  any  deduction 
here,  it  would  have  to  be  that  while  knowledge  of  the 
laws  of  nature  and  of  the  human  mind  advanced  with 
civilization,  love  of  the  fantastic  and  ideal  also  advanced 
with  at  least  equal  stride.  Ten  thousand  years  ago  the 
earnest  purpose  of  the  individual  tale-teller  was  just  as 
likely  as  it  is  to-day  to  urge  him  into  telling  what  he  con- 
sidered truth.  There  was,  however,  an  increasing  sci- 
entific recognition  of  the  advantages  of  at  least  surface 
verisimilitude,  and  of  its  technical  necessity.  The  Egyp- 
tians told  always  of  "strange  things"  without  any  thought 
of  Nature's  restrictive  laws.  The  early  Greeks  did  the 
same,  but  soon  found  themselves  constricted  and  bound 
by  increasing  scientific  knowledge.  "Beowulf"  and  the 
kindred  tales  of  the  early  Teutons  were  possibly  believed 
even  by  the  singers  themselves.  Perhaps  the  "Nibelun- 
genlied"  was  also ;  but,  if  so,  the  effort  of  the  singer  had 
become  conscious.  He  distrusted  the  accounts  of  magic 
and  pushed  them  into  the  background.  He  could  not  him- 
self quite  understand  the  actions  of  his  characters,  and 
fell  back  rather  helplessly  on  asserting  that  he  had  been 
told  they  did  thus  and  so. 

In  the  extravagant  development  of  mediaeval  romance, 
verisimilitude  was  wholly  rejected.  It  was  reasserted  in 
the  prose  tales  of  the  common  people,  and  grasped  in  its 
full  value,  perhaps  with  unconscious  greatness,  by  Boc- 

99 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

caccio  and  Chaucer.  The  monks  pushed  aside  actual 
truth  for  the  sake  of  moral  purpose.  Later  this  actuality, 
this  harmony  with  common  human  experience  was  in- 
sisted on  in  the  picaresque  tales,  half  accepted  by  Madame 
Lafayette,  and  roused  to  its  fullest  effect  of  internal,  but 
not  external,  truth  in  "Pilgrim's  Progress"  and  "Oroo- 
noko."  In  its  external  aspect,  it  came  to  Defoe  by  English 
inheritance  and  also  by  instinctive  genius.  Commercially 
at  least  it  was  Defoe  who  made  its  value  fully  under- 
stood. In  this  respect  "Pamela"  only  repeated  a  lesson 
already  learned. 

Plot. — The  Egyptian  writers  show  no  conception  of 
plot  or  of  unity ;  they  seem  merely  to  aim  to  supply  read- 
ers with  one  astounding  thing  after  another.  The  first 
Greek  tales  have  the  same  object;  but  later  with  the  in- 
creasing use  of  emotion,  the  increased  dealing  with  man 
and  woman  instead  of  man  alone,  the  story  began  more 
and  more  to  look  forward  toward  the  lovers'  union  as  a 
definite  goal  and  conclusion.  This,  however,  was  still  ap- 
proached through  detached  events  with  no  rising  in- 
tensity, no  cumulative  effect,  except  to  some  slight  extent 
in  "Daphnis  and  Chloe."  Then  came  the  degeneracy  and 
extinction  of  Grecian  literature. 

Teutonic  fiction  began  again  at  the  beginning.  In 
"Beowulf"  it  is  utterly  plotless ;  but  the  stern  strength  of 
the  Teutons  forced  their  sagas  rapidly  toward  a  tragic 
unity  which  approached  close  to  plot.  The  chivalric  ro- 
mances of  the  South  drifted  farther  and  farther  from 
this  unity,  and  sought  variety  instead.  The  briefer  prose 
tales  of  the  people  were  naturally  units,  and  Boccaccio 
and  Chaucer  extended  this  unity  to  tales  of  a  few  thou- 

100 


THE  MODERN  NOVEL 

sand  words,  but  these  had  only  a  "short  story  plot" 
grouped  around  a  single  happening,  not  the  "novel  plot" 
which  we  have  descried  as  rising  through  a  series  of  steps. 
Longer  prose  tales  became  more  and  more  heterogene- 
ous, until  Madame  Lafayette  found  perhaps  in  her  own 
life  the  force  of  a  single  cumulative  emotion,  and  by  de- 
picting it  in  her  "Princess  of  Cleves"  came  very  close  to 
unity  of  effect.  This  same  deepening  of  the  intensity  of 
emotional  life  was  even  more  felt  in  England  and  pro- 
duced the  ever-increasing  current  of  earnestness  which 
swept  fiction  on  from  "Oroonoko"  and  "Pilgrim's  Prog- 
ress," to  "Robinson  Crusoe,"  and  at  last  to  "Pamela." 

Thus  we  seem  to  reach  one  clear  and  not  wholly  inval- 
uable conclusion,  that  the  main  power  and  worth  of  the  /  / 
modern  novel,  its  difference  from  former  fiction,  its  su- 
periority, lies  in  its  unity.  This  unity  was  born  from  the 
deepening  of  human  emotion  and  finds  expression  in  the 
plot — indeed  it  creates  the  plot  whether  of  character  or 
incident — and  unity  of  plot  can  arise  only  from  clear  vi- 
sion and  unshifti»g  purpose  in  the  author's  mind.  It  is 
his  earnestness,  his  underlying  honesty  to  himself  and  to 
life,  which  makes  his  novel  "worth  while."  The  thought 
leads  us  back  once  more  to  Stevenson,  the  latest  master ; 
and  one  reads  with  ever  increasing  appreciation  his  intui- 
tive grasp  upon  it  all  when,  in  that  passage  already 
quoted,  he  bids  the  novelist  "Choose  a  motive,  whether 
of  character  or  of  passion ;  carefully  construct  his  plot  so 
that  every  incident  is  an  illustration  of  the  motive,  and 
every  property  employed  shall  bear  to  it  a  near  relation 
of  congruity  or  contrast ;  .  .  .  and  allow  neither  himself 
in  the  narrative,  nor  any  character  in  the  course  of  the  di- 

101 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

alogue,  to  utter  one  sentence  that  is  not  part  and  parcel 
of  the  business  of  the  story  or  the  discussion  of  the  prob- 
lem involved.  .  .  .  And  as  the  root  of  the  whole  mat- 
ter, let  him  bear  in  mind  that  his  novel  is  not  a  transcript 
of  life,  to  be  judged  by  its  exactitude,  but  a  simplification 
of  some  side  or  point  of  life,  to  stand  or  fall  by  its  sig- 
nificant simplicity." 


102 


PART  II 

THE  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE 
MODERN  NOVEL 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  RECENT  STUDY  OF  STORY  BUILDING 

Aim  of  the  The  earlier  portion  of  this  work  lay  over 

ground  infrequently  discussed,  not  often 
examined  except  by  curious  students 
of  the  past.  Through  this  historical  review  I  have 
attempted  to  discover  what  the  essential  elements  of 
the  novel  are,  and  how  and  when  these  first  found  rec- 
ognition among  writers  and  acceptance  among  readers. 
The  purpose  of  the  remaining  portion  is  to  trace  the  de- 
velopment of  technique  in  the  novel  since  the  latter  has 
been  a  popularly  established  form. 

For  this  portion  of  the  work  the  books  of  reference,  the 
critical  studies,  and  the  all-important  "raw  materials,"  the 
novels  themselves,  become  as  numerous  and  easily  ac- 
cessible as,  for  the  earlier  portion,  they  were  rare  and 
scattered.  Indeed  these  later  chapters  might  almost  have 
been  constructed  by  an  elaborate  gathering  of  quotations, 
dovetailing  them  together.  There  have  been  few  novel- 
ists who  have  not,  either  by  letter  or  preface,  or  even 
more  often  by  interpolated  comment  in  their  tales,  told  us 
their  own  estimate  of  their  work  and  of  the  principles  of 
their  art.  The  literary  critics  also  have  given  the  subject 
much  attention.  They  have  gone  butterfly-hunting  through 
all  this  region  of  the  modern  novel's  technique,  rambling 
at  pleasure;  or  they  have  scooted  through  it  in  auto- 
mobiles, just  touching  the  high  spots  along  the  road  in 

105 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

order  to  reach  some  pleasant  grove,  wherein  they  spread 
a  charming  luncheon  for  any  accompanying  friend. 

Indeed  the  most  serious  objection  to  thus  writing  by 
quotation  would  be  that  I  should  prove  too  much.  The 
butterfly  hunter  is  by  nature  an  enthusiast,  else  he  would 
not  take  up  the  chase ;  and  the  beautiful  butterflies  he  him- 
self has  captured,  naturally  please  him  more  than  other 
people's  "stupid  bugs."  Of  the  various  essentials  whose 
early  history  we  have  been  tracing,  not  one  but  has  its  ad- 
vocates, who  have  earnestly  assured  us  that  it  is  the  chief 
factor  not  only  in  the  novel's  construction  but  in  its  suc- 
cess, either  artistic  or  pecuniary.  As  for  the  automobiling 
critics,  most  of  them  have  doubtless  made  careful  pre- 
liminary exploration  of  the  novel's  country  before  escort- 
ing a  friend  to  their  pleasant  luncheons ;  but  these  closer 
studies  they  have  not  mapped  out  for  us.  The  amateur 
who  ventures  into  the  land  has  still  to  stumble  through  it 
as  best  he  may,  following  the  devious  tracks  of  the  ento- 
mologists or  seizing  eagerly  upon  such  luncheon  remnants 
as  have  been  left  behind. 

Be  it  ours  now  to  plod  across  the  land  prosaically  and 
methodically,  to  examine  each  field  of  its  technique,  and 
leave  the  region  roughly  charted  and  measured  for  future 
visitors.  To  one  who  thus  seeks  only  to  establish  the 
known,  and  separate  it  from  the  chaos  of  the  unknown, 
the  enthusiasm  of  previous  explorers  and  of  present-day 
prophets  proclaiming  the  glorious  prospects  of  the  land, 
may  seem  a  bit  bewildering.  He  must  sternly  refuse  to  be 
carried  away  by  each  or  all  of  their  exclamatory  explo- 
sions. Bold  prospector,  you  may  indeed  have  found  a 
gold  mine  out  yonder  in  the  mists ;  yet  we  will  not  lay 

106 


THE  RECENT  STUDY  OF  STORY  BUILDING 

down  our  measuring  tools  for  your  halloo.  Our  less  spec- 
tacular essay  is  still  to  map  out  this  field  immediately  at 
hand — which  may  prove  better  farm  land  in  the  end. 

Whether  then  we  begin  the  modern  novel  with  the 

saintly  Pamela  or  with  some  autobiographical  scamp  of 

Defoe's,  with  the  aristocratic  Princess  of 

2fCthed  ClevCS    °r    the    miserable    litt!e    begSar 

Examen  Lazarillo  and  his  successors,  the  point  of 

starting  need  make  little  difference  so 
long  as  we  can  somewhat  positively  agree  as  to  our  des- 
tination and  our  means  of  reaching  it.  Lazarillo  and 
Madame  Lafayette  are  almost  equally  forgotten.  "Rob- 
inson Crusoe"  is  chiefly  known  through  some  abridgment 
for  children,  one  syllabled  words  in  large  sized  type  with 
highly  colored  pictures  in  red  and  yellow.  "Pamela"  has 
long  since  ceased  to  hold  an  audience;  it  has  been  rele- 
gated to  the  shelves  of  scholars.  The  best  of  these  early 
efforts  shows  poorly  in  comparison  with  later  works ;  yet 
even  the  worst  of  them  has  much  to  teach  us,  much  of 
value  to  be  noted  and  treasured  by  the  man  who  would 
understand  the  successful  novel  of  to-day. 

In  the  study  of  these  works,  it  will  no  longer  be  con- 
venient to  advance  chronologically  and  by  tables,  examin- 
ing each  notable  work  from  every  side.  There  have  been 
such  multitu'des  of  novels,  and  the  progress  manifest  in 
most  of  them  has  been  so  slight,  that  such  a  discussion 
would  become  voluminously  lost  in  its  own  involution, 
and  instead  of  advancing  would  seem  to  .gyrate  in  endless 
repetitions.  Hence  it  becomes  necessary,  in  the  following 
chapters,  to  take  up  separately  the  various  elements,  the 
development  of  which  I  have  previously  followed  in  com- 

107 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

hination.  Having  seen  them  all  unite  to  form  the  novel, 
let  us  now  watch  them  individually,  to  see  what  the  novel 
has  done  with  each.  , 

I  shall  assume  in  the  reader  what  it  would  have  been 
unfair  to  assume  before,  a  general  knowledge  of  the  liter- 
ary history  on  which  we  touch.     It  has 
A*1  ^  been  fully  told:  the  sudden  awakening 

of  the  world  of  1740  to  the  interest  and 
value  of-  the  novel,  the  deification  of 
"Pamela"  and  its  pudgy  little  author,  the  reaction  from 
Richardson's  pathos  to  the  sturdier  tone  of  Fielding,  the 
rush  of  hundreds  of  writers  into  the  new  field  both  in 
England  and  abroad,  and  the  consequent  confusion  and 
misconceptions  of  the  novel  form.  Experimenters  soon 
discovered  just  how  silly  and  ignorant  a  novel  might  be- 
come, and  yet  be  devoured  by  a  public  grown  suddenly 
-  omnivorous.  An  autobiographical  turn  was  given  to  the 
new  fiction  by  Smollett.  A  thousand  deficiencies  of  art 
crept  into  the  easy  form,  and  within  twenty  years  of  its 
creation  the  novel  sank  into  shapeless  chaos,  into  days 
of  a  multitudinous  hackwork  more  uncultured  than  our 
own. 

Meanwhile,  the  milder,  sounder  art  of  Goldsmith,  al- 
most lost  in  England  amid  the  torrent  of  books,  had  been 
vastly  influential  in  molding  foreign,  especially  German, 
thought ;  and  for  a  time  at  least  the  novel  was  of  greater 
import  abroad  than  in  the  home  of  its  first  success. 
Goethe,  admitting  himself  a  pupil  of  Goldsmith,  spread 
his  art  in  Germany.  Musaeus,  Wieland,  and  at  length  the 
Titanic  and  chaotic  Richter  employed  the  new  form  as  a 
vehicle  for  self-expression.  The  romanticists,  Tieck, 

108 


THE  RECENT  STUDY  OF  STORY  BUILDING 

Novalis,  Hoffmann,  made  use  of  it  for  fairy  tales.  In 
France  Voltaire  and  Rousseau  both  seized  upon  the  novel 
as  a  pulpit  from  which  to  preach  of  truth,  of  tolerance,  or 
of  sentiment.  Thus  misunderstood,  misused,  employed  as 
a  mere  outward  garb  in  which  to  clothe  soliloquies  and 
sermons,  poetry  and  preachment,  the  novel,  driven  far 
from  its  legitimate  vocation,  sank  to  depths  of  formless- 
ness and  incoherence  wherein  almost  it  perished. 

It  was  rescued  in  its  native,  land.  There  came  to  its 
aid  a  delicate,  feminine  intuition,  a  womanly  healing,  help- 
ing, and  guiding.  This  potent  influence  developed  from 
the  simple  frankness  of  Miss  Burney,  to  the  tremendous  / 
moral  energy  of  Maria  Edgeworth,  and  the  consummate 
artistic  instinct  of  Jane  Austen.  Standing  on  the  scaffold- 
ing built  by  these,  came  poor,  harassed  Scott  with  his  „ 
prodigal  genius,  uplifting  a  world  of  literature  upon  his 
shoulders  even  as  he  did  a  world  of  financial  disaster,  and 
by  sheer,  blind  strength  raising  the  novelist's  art  again  into 
dignity  and  world-wide  recognition.  Once  more  the 
"English"  novel  was  everywhere  the  vogue,  and  Scott's 
followers  were  legion.  Victor  Hugo  and  Dumas  in 
France,  Manzoni  and  Grossi  in  Italy,  and  at  a  later  period 
the  great  Russian  writers,  Gogol,  Turgenev,  and  Tolstoi, 
received  their  initial  impulse  from  England. 

In  the  native  home  of  the  new  fiction  the  successors  of 
Scott  copied  "his  faults  rather  than  his  excellences,  until 
Dickens  came  with  his  passionate  love  of  humanity,  his. 
intense  insight  and  almost  hysterical  sympathy  to  lift  us 
to  a  higher  plane.  Then  arose  Thackeray  equally  tender, 
but  calmer,  stronger,  more  self -controlled,  to  teach  the 
novel  its  true  high  attitude  toward  life.  In  France,  Bal- 

109 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

zac  taught  breadth  of  view,  George  Sand  blended  poetry 
with  passion,  Merimee,  Gautier  and  a  dozen  more 
wrought  music  into  language.  In  America,  Hawthorne 
gave  perfection  to  form,  and  sought  the  inmost  soul  of 
character. 

Under  such  masters  as  these  the  novel  ceased  to  be  a 
national  creation ;  it  became  international,  universal.  No 
longer  subject  in  its  development  to  the  chance  of  some 
popular  success,  or  to  the  whim  of  any  individual  intel- 
lect, however  great,  the  novel  was  become  a  fully  estab- 
lished and  assured  artistic  form,  The  main  principles  of 
its  technique  were  recognized.  In  later  days  writers  and 
critics  have  broken  into  schools  discussing  and  upholding 
this  or  that  special  issue  in  the  art,  preaching  realism 
after  the  fashion  of  Flaubert,  or  objectivity  with  Maupas- 
sant, delving  in  subtlest  analysis  with  James|  or  prying 
into  every  mud  puddle  with  Zola,  insisting  on  primal  facts 
with  Tolstoi,  or  pleading  for  romance  with  Stevenson. 
But  all  these  special  pleas  have  been  on  problems  intricate 
or  personal ;  the  broader  principles,  the  essential  elements, 
seem  generally  accepted,  if  somewhat  vaguely  under- 
stood. 

There  is,  however,  one  point  of  divergence  between 

the  schools,   which   any   technical   discussion   must   en- 

counter  so  frequently,  that  we  had  best 

Diverging  ^ace  ^  at  once»  before  proceeding  to  in- 

Schools  dividual  examinations.     There  are  two 

sharply  differing  reasons  why  novels  are 

so  widely  read,  two  values  they  possess.    A  reader  may 

turn  to  them  either  for  amusement  or  for  study,  either 

for  relaxation  from  the  sterner  affairs  of  life,  or  for 

no 


THE  RECENT  STUDY  OF  STORY  BUILDING 

knowledge  of  these  same  affairs,  a  wider,  deeper  knowl- 
edge than  one's  narrow  personal  experience  can  offer. 
Doubtless  the  amusement,  the  relaxation,  is  the  dominant 
attraction  which  draws  eighty  out  of  every  hundred  who 
pick  up  a  novel.  Perhaps  the  percentage  could  be  put 
much  higher.  Yet  even  the  most  frivolous  of  the  readers 
of  Stevenson  has  some  sense  of  the  value  of  the  thought 
and  poetry  presented;  and  on  the  other  hand,  the  most 
sternly  scientific  student  of  Zola  can  not  wholly  ignore 
the  pleasure  of  his  toil.  Both  of  these  objects  therefore  the 
novel  must  achieve,  and  if  one  serve  as  the  lure  to  read- 
ing, the  other  is  advanced  as  the  excuse. 

The  critic  of  the  novel  must  recognize  this  twofold 
necessity.  It  is  easy  for  extremists  to  rush  off  on  either 
side,  the  one  rejecting  with  scorn  the  tale  that  ventures 
to  instruct,  the  other  turning  with  equal  contempt  from 
any  analysis  that  stoops  so  low  as  to  amuse.  The  critic 
must  stand  manfully  to  his  guns;  he  must  hold  soberly 
to  the  median  truth;  he  must  insist  on  both  results.  If 
all  the  light  and  interest  be  left  out,  if  one  must  plod  pain- 
fully through  a  book,  forcing  himself  each  day  to  accom- 
plish just  so  much  of  an  allotted  task,  that  book  is  not  a 
novel  but  an  inferior  work  of  science.  If  on  the  other 
hand  one  gathers  from  a  story  only  false  and  misleading 
impressions  of  existence,  only  evil  thoughts  and  worse 
desires,  then  indeed  "Our  Adonais  has  drunk  poison!" 
The  book  is  not  a  novel  but  a  lie.  Personally,  I  have  never 
had  the  misfortune  to  read  any  pretended  "story"  so  flatly 
and  wholly  mendacious  that  I  should  care  to  offer  it  as  an 
example  of  this  latter  class ;  nor  one  so  utterly  lifeless  as 
to  illustrate  the  former.  The  disputants  on  the  subject 

in 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

have  been  mutually  less  forbearing  in  expression ;  but  we 
may  leave  these  extremists  of  controversy  to  vituperate 
one  another.  The  public  is  certain  to  persist  in  its  de- 
mand that  its  novels  shall  have  both  value  and  interest. 

Since  the  writing  as  well  as  the  reading  of  novels  has 
become  so  widely  spread,  their  analysis  must  pass  at 
times  from  one  school  of  writers  to  another,  from  Eng- 
land to  America,  to  France  and  other  lands.  One  must 
follow  the  general  changes,  the  broad  improvements  in 
technique,  which  have  been  made  in  every  clime.  If,  so 
far  as  possible,  I  draw  my  illustrations  from  English- 
speaking  sources,  it  is  chiefly  to  escape  the  deadening  in- 
fluence of  translation,  and  to  appeal  to  the  reader  in  his 
native  tongue. 

One  other  caution  I  should  like  to  emphasize.  The 
question  of-  technique  is  not  the  only  one  with  which  the 
\  novel  is  concerned.  There  is  a  power  of 
thatUesdBeyoml  8enius'  of  mas*ery  over  human  thought, 
Technique  °^  ^re  an^  poetry  and  splendor,  which 

J  far  transcends  technique.  There  have 
been  true  masterworks  of  fiction  that  abounded  in  errors 
of  form;  and  one  can  conceive  the  possibility,  though 
scarce  the  probability,  that  a  technically  perfect  novel 
might  still  be  a  cold  and  tedious  one.  This  caution  does 
not,  however,  contradict  my  opening  proposition  that  the 
question  of  technique  is  of  the  first  importance,  and  that  a 
clear  understanding  of  it  must  vastly  increase  the  pleas- 
ure of  reading  and  the  chances  of  success  in  writing. 

The  present  work  attempts  nothing  beyond  a  broad 
study  of  this  technique.  It  makes  no  effort  to  consider 
those  rules  of  rhetoric  that  apply  equally  to  all  forms  of 

112 


THE  RECENT  STUDY  OF  STORY  BUILDING 

narrative.  Neither  does  it  consider  the  relation  of  the 
novel  to  other  forms.  It  is  not  a  history  of  the  novel,  but 
specifically  an  analysis  of  its  elements.  A  little  history  ap- 
pears, but  only  because  these  elements  can  perhaps  be 
most  readily  understood  by  considering  each  of  them  in 
its  actual  employment,  following  it  through  some  roughly 
chronological  sequence. 


CHAPTER  II 
PLOT 

The  "The  plot's  the  thing."    Of  this  we  are 

Importance  of  positively  assured  by  more  critics  than 
we  need  to  count.  Perhaps  in  discussing 
the  predecessors  of  the  novel,  and  pointing  out  the  slow 
struggle  into  life  of  that  deepening  consciousness  of  unity 
which  finally  made  "plot,"  I  also  may  have  come  very  near 
to  asserting  the  supremacy  of  this  particular  essential. 
Such  an  assertion,  however,  would  have  resulted  from 
viewing  plot  in  that  higher  sense  which  I  have  suggested, 
as  "the  road  of  a  soul."  Ordinarily  the  word  is  accepted 
in  a  lighter  way  as  meaning  merely  the  external  plot,  the 
"story,"  any  continued  sequence  of  events  leading  to  a 
result.  Hence  it  may  be  well  to  seek  the  views  of  the* 
subject  expressed  by  a  few  standard  writers. 

A  review  of  the  definitions  of  the  novel  presented  in 
the  earlier  chapters  will  emphasize  the  general  insistence 
on  the  importance  of  the  "story."  Or  we  might  hearken  to 
Brander  Matthews,  who  in  his  essays  on  the  art  of  fic- 
tion declares,  "Nothing  should  be  allowed  which  does 
not  carry  on  the  story."  Among  novelists  themselves 
there  is  Marion  Crawford,  who  in  a  recent  little  mono- 
graph calls  the  novel  a  "pocket-play,"  and  says:  "The 
means,  all  subservient  to  language,  are  many,  but  the 
object  is  always  one:  to  make  the  reader  realize  as  far 
as  possible  the  writer's  conception  of  his  story." 

An  authority  perhaps  even  higher,  considering  that  he 
114 


PLOT 

was  knighted  as  England's  representative  prose  author, 
is  Sir  AA^ltetBesant.  In  a  lecture  on  the  "Art  of  Fiction" 
he  speaks  of  "the  most  important  point  of  all — the  story," 
and  adds:  "There  is  a  school  which  pretends  that  there 
is  no  need  for  a  story:  all  the  stories,  they  say,  have 
been  told  already ;  there  is  no  more  room  for  invention : 
nobody  wants  any  longer  to  listen  to  a  story.  ...  It  is, 
indeed,  if  we  think  of  it,  a  most  strange  and  wonderful 
theory,  that  we  should  continue  to  care  for  Fiction  and 
cease  to  care  for  the  story.  We  have  all  along  been  train- 
ing ourselves  how  to  tell  the  story,  and  here  is  this  new 
school  which  steps  in,  like  the  needy  knife-grinder,  to 
explain  that  there  is  no  story  left  at  all  to  tell.  Why, 
the  story  is  everything.  I  can  not  conceive  of  a  world 
going  on  at  all  without  stories,  and  those  strong  ones, 
with  incident  in  them,  and  merriment  and  pathos,  laughter 
and  -tears,  and  the  excitement  of  wondering  what  will 
happen  next.  Fortunately,  these  new  theorists  contradict 
themselves,  because  they  find  it  impossible  to  write  a  novel 
which  shall  not  contain  a  story,  although  it  may  be  but 
a  puny  bantling." 

I  have  quoted  Mr.  Besant  thus  much  at  length  because 
even  in  his  energy  he  implies  that  this  point  of  plot 
supremacy  is  not  wholly  conceded.  Opposed  to  his  view 
stand  such  notable  critics  as  M.  Zola,  who  has  expressed 
iiis  opinion  that  the  novelist  of  the  future  will  ignore 
<he  story  wholly,  will  "take  any  chance  event  whatever," 
and  devote  himself  wholly  to  elaborating  "pictures  of 
life" ;  or  there  is  Mr.  Howells,  who  recently  made  in  print 
he  somewhat  startling  announcement  that  he  had  read 
lone  of  Stevenson's  novels  and  did  not  intend  to,  as 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

he  understood  they  were  wholly  "novels  of  adventure"- 
that  is,  stories. 

Since  the  question  is  thus  declared  an  open  one,  our 
only  course  here  must  be  to  follow  the  use  of  plot  in  the 
novels  themselves,  its  employment^  and  development  since 
"Pamela."  By  learning  what  has  been  done  and  with 
what  effect,  we  can  gain  some  idea  of  underlying  values. 

"Pamela,"  as  has  been  pointed  out,  has  a  clearly  marked 
and  sustained,  though  simple,  plot.    The  heroine  is  threat- 
ened with  ruin  not  only  from  outside 
Unconscious         attack,  but  from  the  rising  tide  of  her 

°wn  emotions'    The  <luestion  of  her  fate 
is  the  only  one  presented;  it  cries  out 

to  the  reader  from  every  page  of  the  long  book  with  .ever- 
deepening  uncertainty,  until  his  anxiety  is  at  last  relieved, 
with  the  heroine's,  in  the  rather  stiff  and  conventional 
triumph  of  her  marriage.  This  is  the  real  ending  of  the 
book;  but  later  the  author  added  another  part  equal  to 
the  first  in  length,  a  string  of  scenes  very  slightly  con- 
nected, depicting  Pamela's  trials  while  securing  accept- 
ance in  "society."  It  would  seem,  then,  that  the  strength 
of  plot  in  the  original  tale  was  at  least  to  some  extent 
accidental,  and  that  its  value  was  unrecognized  by  Rich- 
ardson himself. 

Nevertheless,  his  second  and  greatest  novel,  "Clarissa 
Harlowe,"  has  the  same  intensity  of  plot;  in  fact,  the 
same  plot  itself,  though  sketched  upon  a  larger  field.  In 
"Pamela"  we  have  simplicity;  the  letter-writing  heroine 
is  the  only  figure  clearly  drawn.  If  to  her  we  add  her 
master,  and  the  rather  shadowy  curate  Williams,  with 
perhaps  the  still  more  shadowy  Mrs.  Jukes,  we  have 

116 


PLOT 

named  the  only  four  people  who  are  anything  but  super- 
numeraries in  the  tale.  In  "Clarissa,"  on  the  contrary, 
there  are  fully  characterized  some  fifteen  people,  each  of 
whom  takes  an  active  part  in  forwarding  the  tale;  and 
in  addition  there  are  some  fifteen  more,  such  as  the  brothel 
keeper  and  the  undertaker,  who,  while  left  in  outline  as 
empty  types,  are  at  least  as  important  as  Mrs.  Jukes  in 
"Pamela."  Minor  figures,  servants,  friends,  citizens, 
peasants,  appear  in  crowds.  The  reader  moves,  there- 
fore, in  a  much  broader  world,  one  wherein  an  earlier 
writer  like  Defoe  would  surely  have  gone  a-wandering, 
plotless,  drifting  from  chance  to  chance.  Yet  Richardson 
never  for  a  moment  loses  his  course.  If  his  adherence  to 
his  plot  be  a  mere  instinct,  it  is  all  the  more  marvellous 
for  that.  And  the  plot  is  as  simple,  as  narrow,  as  it  is 
strong. 

A  young  woman  of  finest  instincts  is  pressed  forward 
by  a  dozen  different  causes  and  influences  into  a  rash 
elopement.  Struggling,  in  a  far  nobler  spirit  than  silly 
Pamela,  against  what  in  the  novelist's  hands  becomes  an 
inexorable  fate,  she  is  at  length  ruined  by  force.  The 
tale  takes  four  leisurely  volumes  to  reach  to  this,  its 
climax;  yet  even  from  the  very  beginning  the  goal  was 
steadily  in  view  and  drawing  nearer  with  every  word.  The 
climax  reached,  then  with  the  same  stately  slowness  of 
irresistible  fate,  the  same  magnificent  confidence  in  himself 
and  in  his  theme,  the  author  unfolds  the  consequence,  and 
through  four  further  volumes  Clarissa  arranges  her 
affairs  and  dies.  The  technical  perfection  of  dramatic 
construction  in  "Clarissa  Harlowe"  is  one  of  the  most 
notable  points  in  early  fiction. 

117 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

When  one  reads  the  accounts  of  how  Richardson's  two 
tales  were  received  in  their  own  day  as  they  came  out 
part  by  part,  of  the  weeping  groups  that  gathered  round 
the  author  and  besought  him  not  to  let  Clarissa  die,  he 
realizes  that  plot  was  a  large,  I  think  the  largest,  element 
in  their  success.  Clarissa's  character  was  indeed  much 
admired  by  the  public ;  but  it  was  not  her  character  which 
was  at  stake  through  those  last  four  volumes,  it  was  her 
fate,  her  "story." 

Of  course  we  peruse  these  tales  with  other  eyes  to-day. 
Their  long-drawn  agony  and  suspense  are  more  than  the 
modern,  or  at  least  the  American,  spirit  will  endure.  I 
have  offered  these  volumes  for  reading  to  class  after  class 
of  college  students,  and  I  have  yet  to  find  a  young  man 
who  did  not  skim  through  the  latter  part  of  the  story, 
passing  over  ever  larger  and  larger  gaps  until  he  reached 
the  en4r  On  the  other  hand,  it  is  noteworthy  that  they  all  do 
reach  and  read  that  end.  In  other  words,  it  is  not  indiffer- 
ence that  hampers  their  reading,  but  impatience.  Richard- 
J  son  is  not  too  dull,  but  only  too  deliberate  for  modern  taste. 

This  impression  that  our  earliest  novelist  reached  his 
two  great  successes  unwittingly,  deepens  when  one  turns 
to  his  third  and  last  story,  "Sir  Charles  Grandison." 
Here  he  had  no  longer  the  one  dominant  idea,  the  one 
intent,  which  makes  for  unity.  In  "Pamela"  he  started 
to  portray  a  simple  girl  resisting  temptation ;  in  "Clarissa," 
a  young  lady  rising  superior  to  disaster.  In  "Grandison" 
he  aimed  only  to  display  an  ideal  gentleman.  *Note  the 
distinction.  In  each  of  the  earlier  efforts  there  was  a 
I  character  and  a  struggle ;  that  is,  as  we  demanded  at  the 
beginning,  the  man  plus  the  movement,  a  story,  an  emo- 

118 


PLOT 

tion.  In  the  last  there  was  only  a  character.  Grandison 
might  do  what  he  would.  Being  thus  unconstrained,  or 
let  us  say  unguided,  by  a  predetermined  plot,  an  idee 
fixe,  Richardson  attempted  a  yet  wider  scene,  he  brought 
in  more  characters.  As  a  result  he  wandered  in  uncer- 
tainty. In  Grandison  it  is  chance,  not  fate,  that  ushers 
in  each  new  event.  The  hero  has  the  game  entirely  in 
his  own  hands,  and  we  feel  no  anxiety  for  him.  We  do 
not  ask  breathlessly  what  happened  next;  we  soon  cease 
to  care.  The  novel  was  a  failure.  To  say  that  this  was 
because  of  its  feebleness  of  vacillating  plot,  is  to  assert 
what  is  now  impossible  of  proof;  but  the  fact  remains 
that  this  novel,  intended  by  Richardson  to  be  his  master- 
piece, was  upheld,  even  in  its  own  day,  only  by  the  tre- 
mendous reputation  of  the  author.  To-day  it  has  become 
almost  unreadable.  I  know  no  more  tedious  literary  task 
imposed  upon  the  unhappy  critic  than  that  of  reading 
through  the  endless  inanities  and  ecstasies  which  fill  the 
eight  volumes  of  "Grandison." 

If  Richardson  was  the  unconscious  artist  made  great  K 

by  a  dominating  idea,  Fielding  on  the  other  hand  was 

the  deliberate  student,  always  planning, 

Fielding's  Use      measuring    and    analyzing    his    effects. 

of  the  Comedy      Fiddi       came  tQ  ^  wQrk  ^  a  novelist 

Drama  Plot  .  .  .          t  .  , 

with  a  special  technical  training  which 

his  rival  lacked.  He  was  a  university  gentleman,  and 
therefore  had  some  pretence  to  taste.  He  was  a  lawyer 
and  professional  wit,  and  therefore  not  likely  to  be  be- 
trayed into  mawkish  sentiment.  He  was  a  tried  and  fairly 
successful  dramatist,  skilled  therefore  in  the  construction 
of  the  literary  form  that  comes  closest  to  the  novel. 

119 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

Considering  the  supreme  importance  which  plot  holds 
in  the  drama,  it  is  rather  surprising  that  Fielding's  sub- 
mission to  its  guidance  in  his  novels  is  not  even  more  pro- 
nounced. He  began  the  first  of  these  in  heedless  holiday 
mood.  He  started  "Joseph  Andrews"  solely  to  ridicule 
"Pamela" ;  and  at  first  he  seems  to  have  conceived  it  sim- 
ply as  a  string  of  burlesque  incidents  ridiculing  the  sore 
tried  modesty  and  virtue  of  his  Joseph.  The  power  that 
seized  upon  the  author  and  gave  worth  to  this  flimsy  de- 
sign, was  his  love  of  his  own  figures  as  they  grew  beneath 
his  hand.  Parson  Adams  is  the  book.  The  characters, 
the  scenes,  the  incidents,  and  the  author's  keen  and  bit- 
ter comment  upon  these  as  they  pass,  make  up  its  value. 
Its  plot  never  reaches  beyond  the  rudimentary  stage. 

Was  it  because  of  this  that  "Joseph  Andrews"  never 
won  the  popular  success  that  "Pamela"  did  ?  Though  its 
knowledge  of  human  life  is  ten  times  as  wide,  its  phi- 
losophy of  life  ten  times  as  high,  it  was  not  in  its  own 
day,  perhaps  it  is  not  to-day,  considered  so  great  or  so  en- 
thralling a  book.  It  was  the  author's  plaything,  unin- 
spired by  his  deeper  self,  a  mere  preliminary  to  his 
greater  work. 

In  "Tom  Jones"  on  the  contrary  Fielding  set  himself 
down  deliberately  to  study  this  new  form  of  fiction,  and 
use  it  to  present  his  view  of  life.  He  wanted  to  protest 
against  the  formal  morality  of  Richardson  and  Richard- 
son's school.  He  wanted  to  expose  cant  and  hypocrisy, 
to  exalt  the  spirit  above  the  letter  of  the  law,  to  insist 
that  what  a  man  is  and  feels,  shall  be  taken  into  our 
estimate  of  the  man,  rather  than  what  he  says  and  does, 
rather  than  sententious  action  with  perhaps  treacher- 

120 


PLOT 

ous  motive.  In  "Tom  Jones,"  then,  we  have  the  fully 
planned  and  preconsidered  work  of  a  master.  In  the  first 
chapter  of  each  "book"  the  author  pauses  to  discuss  his 
art,  to  explain  its  principles  and  point  out  their  applica- 
tion to  his  work.  This  in  itself  is  of  course  a  distraction 
from  the  tale ;  but  it  shows  its  earnestness,  its  careful 
study.  Putting  these  introductory  chapters  aside,  as  I 
suppose  nine  out  of  every  ten  readers  do  put  them  aside, 
unread,  the  book  has  a  well  built,  well  connected  plot.  I 
say  "built"  because  we  have  here  an  obviously  arranged 
and  constructed  edifice,  not  the  natural  sweeping  onward 
like  a  river  which  is  so  characteristic  of  Richardson's 
masterpieces. 

Fielding's  knowledge  of  the  drama  has  even  led  him  to 
the  use  of  "intrigue"  and  "surprise,"  things  unthinkable 
to  Richardson's  simplicity.  That  is  to  say,  there  is  a  se- 
cret, the  existence  of  which  is  announced  at  the  beginning. 
Tom  Jones  is  presented  as  a  foundling  babe.  His  par- 
entage is  kept  from  the  reader ;  but  much  is  told  of  the 
circumstances  surrounding  his  discovery,  and  hints  as  to 
his  true  birth  are  scattered  in  every  chapter.  The  chal- 
lenge is  thus  deliberately  held  forth  that  the  reader  shall 
exercise  his  ingenuity  to  guess  the  answer  to  the  riddle. 
Curiosity  is  roused. 

Then  comes  the  trickery  by  which  Tom  is  deliberately 
driven  from  his  home,  deprived  of  his  fortune  and  his 
love;  and  we  set  out  with  him  sympathetically,  as  his 
avowed  champions,  to  discover  his  parentage,  rout  his 
enemies,  and  win  his  sweetheart.  Here  are  many  threads 
of  interest  deliberately  offered  us,  where  Richardson  gave 
only  one.  Following  the  ravelled  skein  we  find,  not  as  in 

121 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

"Clarissa  Harlowe"  a  rising  intensity,  a  climax  of  fate 
and  passion,  followed  by  a  falling  action  of  equal  length 
ending  in  the  catastrophe,  we  find  instead  a  series  of  diffi- 
culties accumulating  around  Tom  and  his  lady,  partly 
through  their  own  follies  and  weaknesses,  partly  through 
the  obstinacy  or  treachery  of  others.  Secrets  multiply 
until  the  final  act — the  terms  of  the  drama  come  naturally 
here,  for  the  methods  are  obviously  borrowed  from  the 
comic  stage — when  the  machinations  of  the  villain  break 
down  rather  feebly  and  unexpectedly,  trick  after  trick  is 
laid  bare,  complexity  after  complexity  unravelled,  and 
we  reach  what  has  become  the  conventional  novel  end, 
the  secret  solved,  the  villains  foiled,  and  the  wedding  for 
a  final  chapter. 

"Tom  Jones"  is  a  masterpiece;  but  I  am  not  aiming 
here  to  reassert  its  unquestioned  greatness.  I  am  exam- 
ining it  solely  on  the  subject  of  plot;  and  in  that  respect 
the  lavish  praise  showered  on  the  book  has  misled  many 
an  amateur.  It  is  true  that  Coleridge  went  back  to  an- 
tiquity to  group  this  plot  with  classic  models  as  being  one 
of  the  three  perfect  ones;  and  some  later  critics  have 
echoed  Coleridge's  phrase.  But  I  can  only  understand 
them  as  meaning  a  sort  of  bandbox  perfection.  The 
prestidigitateur  whirls  a  surprising  number  of  bulky  arti- 
cles out  of  a  box.  It  seems  astounding  that  so  much  mat- 
ter was  contained  within,  and  quite  impossible  that  all  of 
it  should  ever  be  restored  again.  But,  presto!  The 
magician  waves  his  wand,  and  back  the  heterogeneous 
mass  all  tumbles  into  place.  Every  article  fits  in.  Not 
one  is  crowded  out,  not  a  loose  end  left  dangling  any- 
where. Examine  it  for  yourselves,  gentlemen;  admire. 

122 


PLOT 

Marvellous  !  Yet,  after  all,  this  is  only  a  trickster's  per- 
fection, the  triumph  of  a  mathematician  and  a  wit.  There 
is  no  great  artistry  in  this.  I  am  not  sure  that  there  is 
even  any  very  absorbing  interest.  In  brief,  the  plot,  the 
story  of  "Tom  Jones,"  while  mechanically  perfect,  is 
trivial  and  external,  hinging  upon  the  -accidents  and 
coincidences  of  life,  not  upon  its  deeper  causes  and 
consequences.  One  is  recalled  constantly  to  Professor 
Brahder  Matthews'  keen  comment,  that  the  art  of  fiction, 
dealing  first  with  the  impossible,  progressed  through  the  / 
improbable  to  the  probable,  and  then  to  the  inevitable.  /\ 
"Tom  Jones"  still  deals  with  the  improbable. 

Yet  another  noteworthy  point  in  our  investigation  of 

this  celebrated  work  is  its  treatment  of  episode.    During 

Tom's    journey    to    London    there    are 

several  adventures  introduced  that  have 
Use  of 


Episode  verv    "^*e   connection    with   either   the 

hero  or  the  plot,  and  once  at  least  the 
tale  stops  flatly  and  frankly  while  Tom  listens  through 
chapters  to  the  life  history  of  a  chance  recluse.     More-   [ 
over,  Fielding  takes  up  this  handling  of  his  matter  for   . 
discussion,  and  insists  on  the  necessity  of  "episode,"  to 
relieve  the  strain  of  the  reader's  attention  to  the  longer 
tale. 

This  doctrine  in  its  baldest  form  has  wholly  vanished 
out  of  fiction.  It  is  unthinkable  that  a  tale-teller  of 
to-day  should  interrupt  himself,  "But,  gentlemen,  I  fear 
I  bore  you,  or  I  sadden  you.  Let  me  tell  you  a  different 
story.  .  .  .  And  now,  your  minds  being  at  rest  again, 
let  me  resume  the  story  which  we  rejected  before. 
Kindly  turn  back  three  chapters  and  see  where  we  were." 

123 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

This  is,  I  say,  unthinkable.  But  in  a  less  obtrusive  form 
episode  still  preserves  its  place  in  many  novels.  The 
characters  of  the  tale  are  not  deserted,  but  are  used  in 
scenes  which,  while  failing  to  advance  the  central  story, 
emphasize  some  other  aim  deemed  essential  by  the 
writer. 

On  the  stage  of  course  the  episode  is  more  often  wholly 
extraneous.  There  its  purpose  is  distinctly  to  break  too  ex- 
treme a  tension,  to  give  us  lights  by  which  to  gauge  the 
shadows.  But  the  conditions  of  the  drama,  if  I  must 
insist  on  it  again,  demand  a  different  technique.  When 
the  reader  of  a  novel  wearies  of  its  strain  he  can,  he 
does,  lay  the  book  aside,  and  seek  relief  in  some  outer 
distraction.  The  play  must  be  taken  at  a  single  sit- 
ting, and  hence  must  supply  its  own  relief.  Moreover 
the  actual  sight  of  the  characters  on  the  stage  so  intensi- 
fies our  sense  of  their  emotions,  their  dangers,  that  we 
may  well  need  relief.  On  the  other  hand  the  vague- 
ness of  the  novelist's  hold  upon  his  unseen  reader, 
enfeebled  by  the  constant  interruption  of  the  reading  for 
the  affairs  of  life,  makes  it  almost  impossible  to  create 
sufficient  intensity  of  impression.  A  novelist  to-day  may 
snap  the  thread  of  interest  by  accident,  mistaking  its  true 
course;  but  no  practised  writer  dreams  of  deliberately 
ignoring  or  neglecting  the  deeps  he  may  have  stirred, 
of  uniting  with  the  forces  of  disunion  and  adding  him- 
self to  the  interrupters  of  his  tale. 

The  matter  is  summarized  by  the  novelist  Trollope  in 
his  Autobiography.  He  says,  "There  should  be  no  epi- 
sodes in  a  novel.  Every  sentence,  every  word,  through 
--all  those  pages,  should  tend  to  the  telling  of  the  story. 

124 


PLOT 

Such  episodes  distract  the  attention  of  the  reader,  and 
always  do  so  disagreeably.  Who  has  not  felt  this  to  be 
the  case,  even  with  The  Curious  Impertinent'  [in  "Don 
Quixote"]  and  with  the  'History  of  the  Man  of  the 
Hill'  [in  "Tom  Jones"]  ?  And  if  it  be  so  with  Cervantes 
and  Fielding,  who  can  hope  to  succeed?  Though  the 
novel  which  you  have  to  write  must  be  long,  let  it  be 
all  one.  And  this  exclusion  .of  episodes  should  be  car- 
ried down  into  the  smallest  details."  Returning  there- 
fore to  our  first  idea,  Fielding's  plot  construction  is  that 
of  the  dramatist,  the  comic  dramatist,  and  in  so  far  as  the 
technique  of  the  novel  differs  from  that  of  the  comic 
drama,  in  so  far  Fielding  fails. 

Smollett,  most  noted  of  the  immediate  followers  of 
Richardson  and  Fielding,  gave  less  of  value  to  plot  than   J 

did  either  erf  them.  In  this  he  harks 
Eighteenth  Cen-  backward  to  Defoe.  Each  of  his  early 
tury  Tendencies  ^^  ^^  ^  Hfe  Q£  &  carries  a 

toward    Internal 

pjot  wandering   hero   through   many   scenes 

and  detached  adventures.  Indeed  Smol- 
lett's first  successful  novel  was  almost  wholly  auto- 
biographic. Some  idea  of  continuity,  however,  he  had 
gathered  from  his  more  recent  models.  He  has  always 
a  heroine,  and  a  love  affair  which,  once  it  is  started, 
drags  on  to  the  end  of  the  wandering  tale ;  and  he  closes 
with  the  hero's  marriage,  not,  as  did  Defoe,  with  old  age 
and  repentance. 

Far  more  important  in  the  development  of  plot  was     , 
the  work  of  those  greater  writers,  Johnson  and  Goldsmith.    "V* 
Each  of  these  literary  leaders  of  the  day,  in  the  course 
of  his  multifarious  labors,  produced  a  single  novel;  and 

125 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

each  of  these  books,  despite  its  hurried  and  careless  manu- 
facture, displays  some  instinctive  appreciation  of  the 
necessities  of  technique.  Johnson's  "Rasselas,"  we  are 
told,  was  struck  off  at  white  heat,  in  great  haste  under 
stress  of  a  single  impulse.  As  usual<  unity  of  purpose 
.  has  here  produced  unity  of  j>lot.  Trie  writer  meant  to 
-  portray  a  man,  in  possession  of  all  that  makes  for  physi- 
cal happiness,  rejecting  these  things  in  a  search  for  men- 
tal happiness,  and  learning  through  repeated  disappoint- 
ments that  this  nobler  form  is  not  to  be  found  on  earth, 
that  we  must  look  higher. 

It  is  a  pity  that  the  good  doctor's  ponderous  verbosity 
has  relegated  this  tale  almost  wholly  to  the  libraries  of 
students.  There  is  no  doubt  that  the  ordinary  reader 
would  enjoy,  and  he  certainly  would  profit  much  by, 
a  revival  of  the  classic  work — if  only  he  did  not  fall 
-^  asleep  over  its  magniloquent  but  perissological  otiosity. 

In  Goldsmith's  "Vicar  of  Wakefield"  we  face  a  wholly 
different  style 'and  thought,  yet  here  also  there  is  unity 
of  plot.  The  idea  of  the  story  looks  back  to  Richard- 
son. Goldsmith  planned  to  take  not  a  good  girl  but  a 
good  man,  to  heap  upon  him  every  increasing  suffering, 
and  have  him  rise  superior  to  all,  until  the  last  and  worst 
calamity  showed  him  only  nobler  than  the  petty  trials 
of  the  early  chapters.  This  is  what  may  technically  be 
calK-d  a  "character  plot,"  a  form  which  has  here  become 
much  more  subjective,  more  dependent  on  internal  emo- 
tions than  it  is  with  Richardson.  In  "Pamela,"  which 
might  also  by  a  straining  of  words  be  said  to  have  a 
character  plot,  our  interest  centres  almost  wholly  around 
the  objective,  the  external  result.  Will  Pamela  escape? 

126 


PLOT 

Will  she  triumph,  or  will  she  fall?  So  even  in 
"Clarissa,"  much  more  important  as  the  subjective  be- 
comes, the  main  anxiety  of  readers  is  still,  will  she  be 
ruined  or  saved?  And  after  that,  will  she  die  or  live? 
In  the  "Vicar"  it  is  the  progress  of  the  man  himself  that 
holds  us,  not  the  rather  mechanical  series  of  events  by 
which  he  suffers.  In  fact  this  mechanical  series  of 
events  has  been  always  felt  to  be  unconvincing;  and  we 
know  how  Goldsmith  himself  breaks  impatiently  through 
it  at  the  end,  and  uses  the  most  improbable  tricks  of  the 
stage  to  rescue  the  Vicar  from  all  the  apparently  irretriev- 
able disaster.  Thus  Goldsmith's  one  novel  possesses  an 
external  plot  which  is  quite  as  elaborate  in  its  intricacy, 
and  sudden  and  improbable  in  its  trickery,  as  that  of 
"Tom  Jones";  and  it  is  even  less  convincing.  But  it 
possesses  also  an  internal  plot  far  more  important  and 
more  true,  which  dominates  the  whole.  Some  critics 
have  thought  they  saw  such  a  character  plot  also  existent 
in  "Tom  Jones";  but  if  so  it  is  certainly  not  dominant. 
On  the  contrary  it  is  wavering,  feeble,  and  often  wholly 
forgotten  in  the  exploitation  of  other  "pictures  of 
life." 

Through  the  lesser  novels  of  this  first  period  I  have 
searched  carefully  in  hopes  to  find  others  which  I  might 
place  beside  those  of  Richardson,  Fielding,  Johnson,  and 
Goldsmith  in  their  power  of  plot,  their  conception  of  this 
idea  of  unity.  I  have  found  not  one.  Adventure,  inci- 
dent, is  still  the  theme  as  with  Defoe.  To  whom  these 
adventures  happen,  or  what  their  consequence,  their  con- 
nection one  with  another,  remains  a  minor  matter.  In 
France  those  two  mighty  geniuses,  Voltaire  and  Rous- 

127 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

seau,  both  employed  the  popular  novel-form;  but  the 
"Zadig"  and  "Candide"  of  the  one  and  the  "New 
Heloise"  and  "Emile"  of  the  other  are  really  philosophic 
treatises  concerned  wholly  with  argument  and  the  en- 
forcement of  the  writer's  views.  They  are  called  novels 
only  for  want  of  a  better  name.  In  fact  Voltaire  him- 
self spoke  with  utmost  contempt  of  the  novel  as  "the 
work  of  folk  writing  easily  things  unworthy  to  be  read 
by  serious  minds." 

In  Germany  also,  the  earlier  attempts  at  the  novel  by 
Wieland,  Musaeus  and  others,  are  far  inferior  in  tech- 
nique to  those  of  the  English  masters.  It  is  only  with 
Goethe  that  the  German  novel  rose  to  notable  artistic 
form.  The  "Sorrows  of  Werther"  was  written,  as  Goethe 
himself  tells  us,  under  Goldsmith's  influence.  It  in  turn 
became  a  mighty  influence,  over  all  Europe.  Here  also, 
as  in  the  English  masters,  we  find  unity  of  plot.  Werther, 
the  hero,  is  attracted  toward  a  young  lady  who  is  already 
devoted  to  another.  Werther's  hopeless  passion  grad- 
ually deepens  until  he  has  not  the  power,  scarcely  even  a 
wish,  to  struggle  against  it.  Dejection  slowly  masters 
him  and  leads  at  length  to  suicide,  deliberately  planned. 
This  supplies  a  powerful  plot,  which  is  kept  for  every 
moment  in  mind.  Moreover,  it  is  a  subjective  plot,  deal- 
ing not  with  action  but  with  feeling,  with  the  progress 
of  an  emotion.  In  this  persistent  dominance  of  the  tale 
by  a  single  idea,  the  "Sorrows  of  Werther"  compares  with 
the  best  work  of  Richardson. 

Goethe's  later  novel,  "Elective  Affinities,"  contains  an 
equally  positive  and  clearly  handled  plot  sketched  with 
more  characters  and  on  a  broader  canvass;  but  in  his 

128 


PLOT 

much  greater  and  more  fully  elaborated  work,  "Wilhelm 
Meister's  Apprenticeship,"  plot  sinks  to  be  a  minor  mat- 
ter. At  least  this  is  true  of  the  outward,  the  visual  plot. 
Meister  wanders  idly  through  many  adventures;  and 
while  the  work  attempts  to  show  the  hero's  gradual  broad- 
ening of  mind  and  acceptance  of  the  lessons  of  life,  yet 
this  study  is  so  broken  in  upon,  so  wholly  forgotten  by 
the  reader  during  many  pages  of  philosophizing  about 
all  things  in  heaven  and  earth,  that  no  man  ever  yet 
read  "Wilhelm  Meister"  for  the  story.  It  is  only  after 
laying  it  down  that  he  says — or  may  say  if  he  has 
thought  earnestly  the  while — "I  see  how  Meister  epito- 
mizes us  all.  I  see  how  we  do,  we  must,  pass  from 
enthusiasm  and  rebellion  to  an  attitude  of  chastened  sub- 
mission and  even  approval  toward  the  universe." 

Long  before  as  a  matter  of  chronology  we  reach  the 
later  novels  of  Goethe,  there  had  developed  in  England 
a  new  form  of  fiction  in  which  the  exter- 
External  Plot  naj  piot  resumed  its  importance.  This  i 
Eight'eent^Cen.  was  the  novel  of  mystery.  It  began  with  X 
tury  Novels  Walpole's  "Castle  of  Otranto."  Recur- 
ring to  the  methods  of  an  earlier  age, 
Walpole,  as  he  explained  in  the  preface  of  his  tale, 
sought  deliberately  to  appeal  to  wonder;  so  he  intro- 
duced the  supernatural  into  ordinary  life.  His  wonders 
seem  puerile  to  us  now;  I  can  never  quite  escape  the 
suspicion  that  they  were  intentionally  burlesque,  as 
where,  for  instance,  in  a  tragic  moment  three  super- 
natural drops  of  blood  fall  from  the  nose  of  a  statue. 
But  at  least  the  tale  was  taken  seriously  in  its  own  day, 
had  a  wide  success,  and  started  a  school.  Here  then  is 

129 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

a  new  form;  and,  like  the  earlier  successes,  it  has  its 
plot  clearly  marked.  The  villain,  Manfred,  acquires  a 
baronial  estate  by  bloody  crimes;  the  ghostly  ancestors 
of  the  excluded  heir  take  up  the  cause  of  their  family 
and,  after  inflicting  endless  supernatural  visitations  upon 
the  followers  of  Manfred,  and  involving  his  innocent 
daughters  in  the  general  discomfort,  they  finally  bring 
about  Manfred's  death  and  the  restoration  of  the  legiti- 
mate baronial  race  in  the  person  of  the  lover  of  one 
of  the  daughters. 

If  the  modern  reader  calls  this  childish,  there  are  few 
of  us  who  would  dispute  with  him ;  but  at  least  it  gives 
a  clearly  outlined  and  consecutive  story.  Nay,  it  is 
almost,  as  one  critic  has  remarked,  a  detective  story; 
and  it  develops  its  denouement  with  something  of  a  de- 
tective's cleverness.  Unfortunately,  if  the  tale  is  re- 
garded in  this  light,  our  rebellious  sympathies  are  in 
danger  of  turning  to  Manfred.  The  game  against  him 
is  unfairly  played.  Surely  in  a  detective  story  at  least, 
one  can  demand  that  when  the  brains  are  out  the  man 
shall  die,  "and  there  an  end"  to  him.  Macbeth's  hysteric 
outcry  is  in  "Otranto"  brought  up  for  practical  argument 
and  protest. 

Most  popular  of  the  followers  of  Walpole  in  the  use 
of  mystery  was  Mrs.  Radcliffe.  Each  of  her  novels  has 
a  fully  developed  external  plot.  The  almost  superhu- 
man villain  seeks  to  destroy  the  equally  superhuman  hero- 
ine ;  and  she  escapes  him  only  after  going  through  a  series 
of  excruciating  agonies  and  sepulchral  horrors,  from 
which  she  is  ultimately  rescued  by  the  lugubriously  poetic 
hero. 

130 


PLOT 

This  form  of  the  novel  may  here  be  dismissed  briefly. 
The  romance  of  horror  had  from  the  start,  and  has 
always  retained,  a  marked  external  plot.  It  feels 
strongly  the  impelling  force  of  its  "story,"  and  sweeps 
onward  toward  some  definite  end.  There  is  always  a 
villain  to  foil,  a  tragic  secret  to  unveil,  and  when  this 
has  been  accomplished  and  the  debris  cleared  away,  the 
novel  has  obviously  reached  its  final  chapter.  There 
is  no  turning  another  page,  as  Smollett  did,  and  starting 
off  afresh,  as  where  in  "Roderick  Random"  he  says: 
"Baffled  in  my  matrimonial  schemes,  I  began  to  question 
my  talents  for  the  science  of  fortune-hunting,  and  to  bend 
my  thoughts  towards  some  employment  under  the  govern- 
ment." In  the  mystery  story  the  plot  became  stronger  - 
than  the  hero. 

This  was  not  so  obviously  true  in  the  general  novel 
form  of  the  day,  which  was  less  dominated  by  a  vil- 
lain and  a  crime.  Mackenzie's  "Man  of  Feeling,"  for 
example,  was  not  only  classed  as  a  novel  but  praised  as 
such.  This  much  admired  work  of  the  "Scottish  Addi- 
son"  is  absolutely  plotless.  Harley,  the  man  of  feeling, 
wanders  through  various  disconnected  scenes,  and  medi- 
tates delicately  over  each.  There  is  no  more  story  than 
in  the  loose  papers  of  the  English  Addison,  half  a  cen- 
tury before. 

Only  with  the  dominance  of  the  woman  novelists  in 
England  did  plot  become  once  more  clearly  outlined. 
This  is  perhaps  but  another  way  of  saying  that  a  novel 
centring  about  a  heroine  is  naturally  much  more  unified 
than  one  about  a  hero.  To  a  young  woman  of  that 
period,  at  least  according  to  her  own  presentment  of 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

herself  in  fiction,  there  was  just  one  end  in  life,  matri- 
mony. As  it  was  not  considered  the  proper  thing  for  her 
to  transfer  her  affections,  or  certainly  not  more  than 
once,  it  followed  that  her  destined  mate  must  appear 
early  in  the  tale.  Then  difficulties  must  intervene  to  pre- 
vent the  lovers  from  marrying  each  other  before  the  end 
of  the  book,  which  closed  either  with  a  wedding  or  a 
lovelorn  death,  quite  as  assuredly  as  the  mystery  tale 
did  with  a  revelation. 

The  novels  of  Miss  Burney  emphasize  this  very 
clearly.  So  do  those  of  a  dozen  authoresses  less  known. 
Even  Miss  Edgeworth,  though  she  began  her  career  by 
practising  with  moral  tales  for  children  and  with  rather 
plotless  scenes  from  Irish  life,  was  soon  swept  into  the 
general  current  of  pretty  maids  and  popularity. 

Evidently  we  are  looking  here  upon   external   plot, 

dependent  on  incident  and  situation,  not  on  great  crises 

of  the  human  soul.     Of  course  some  excitement  was 

needed  to  keep  the  reader  reading,  and  since  the  delicious 

ghostly  thrills  of  the  horror  tale  were  denied  them,  the 

young  lady  heroines  had  to  undergo  some  rather  startling 

experiences.     Few  of  them  reached   the  end   of   their 

three  volumes  without  an  abduction  or  an  elopement  or 

something  even  more  alarming.     But  these  little  depar- 

I  tures   from   the   commonplace   of   life   were   not   taken 

I   seriously  by  their  victims,  either  within  or  without  the 

I    pages,  and  involved   no  such  concentrated  and  classic 

tragedy  as  in  "Clarissa." 

It  is  well  to  emphasize  the  importance  thus  given  in 
the  novels  of  the  later  eighteenth  century  to  both  inci- 
dent and  excitement;  because  both  were  designedly  dis- 

132 


PLOT 

carded   by  that   celebrated   authoress   who   then  began 

her  work.     Jane   Austen  produced   half  a  dozen  tales 

wholly   unlike    anything   that   had   pre- 

pi?tPinlty  (       ceded  them>  l*r&ly  different  from  every- 

Jane  Austen  thing  that  followed,  until  a  quite  recent 
date.  In  each  of  her  celebrated  novels 
there  is  a  plot  clearly  marked,  simple  and  complete.  The 
heroine's  love  affair  begins  at  the  beginning  and  is  the  one 
theme  pursued  steadily  to  the  close.  Yet  nothing  startling 
ever  happens.  The  lovers  drift  along  amid  the  most  ordi- 
nary and  commonplace  of  occurrences  with  never  a 
scream  nor  shout,  not  even  a  rousing  curse  nor  an 
orotund  defiance,  such  as  gladdened  the  page  of  their 
predecessors.  I  spoke  of  Fielding  as  still  dealing  with 
the  improbable  in  fiction;  the  work  of  Jane  Austen 
might  be  called  the  apotheosis  of  the  probable.  In  her 
tales  the  entire  interest  comes  from  the  development  of 
the  lovers'  feelings  and  relations  toward  each  other.  Her 
plots  are  as  simple  and  natural  as  they  are  fully  rounded, 
cumulative,  and  convincing.  Despite  their  simplicity 
they  hold  our  interest;  and  their  completeness  never 
seems  mechanical.1 

Thus  suddenly,  without  warning,  a  new  genius  had 
seen  a  new  potentiality  in  the  novel's  plot,  and  directed 
attention  not  to  "moving  accidents  by  flood  and  field," 
but  to  the  simpler  things  of  the  common  life,  the  natural 
course  and  change  of  ordinary  human  emotion.  So  radical 
an  innovation  was  not  likely  to  have  immediate  imitators. 

'From  this  praise  one  must  partly  exclude  her  first  novel,  "Sense 
and  Sensibility" ;  here  the  mechanical  building  of  a  road  and 
driving  her  characters  along  it  whether  they  will  or  no  is  very 
open  and  unconvincing. 

133 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

It  is  interesting  to  note  how  the  lady  novelists  of  Jane 
Austen's  time,  even  the  most  successful  ones,  like  Susan 
Ferrier  or  Mrs.  Opie,  caught  at  her  style,  imitated  her 
thought,  followed  her  in  everything  but  this  simplicity  of 
plot.  They  could  not  imagine  a  tale  without  excitement, 
a  novel  without  explosions. 

Even  Scott,  great  genius  as  he  was,  and  keen  and  gen- 
erous observer  of  the  worth  of  all  his  predecessors,  espe- 
cially of  Miss  Austen,  even  he  insisted 
n  uen  on  exc^ement  and  on  grandiloquent  situ- 

ations in  his  novels.  As  an  artist  he 
mocked  his  own  exaggeration,  "doing  the  big  bow-wow 
style,"  he  called  it ;  but  as  a  man  of  business  he  gave  his 
public  what  he  believed  they  wished. 

Apart  from  this  note  of  extravagance  and  something  of 
diffuseness,  most  of  Scott's  novels  have  dramatic  and 
consistent  plots.  Incident  springs  from  incident,  and 
leads,  though  without  much  cumulative  force,  to  a  defi- 
nite .external  goal.  His  Scotch  novels  are  particularly 
good  in  this,  if  one  excepts  "Waverley,"  the  earliest  of 
them,  where  for  the  first  third  of  the  tale  his  "unpractised 
pen"  wandered  confusedly.  He  knew  not  how  to  ad- 
vance. "Waverley"  on  this  point  offers  a  most  interest- 
ing comparison  with  Miss  Austen's  earliest  sketch  for  a 
novel,  "Sense  and  Sensibility."  Each  of  these  "prentice" 
efforts  was  laid  aside  for  a  decade  or  more  before  being 
offered  to  the  public.  Each  of  them  was  turned  and 
twisted  by  its  amateur  author  in  an  experimental  way. 
In  its  final  form  "Sense  and  Sensibility"  erred  by  making 
its  plot  too  mechanically  exact,  by  too  obviously  spelling 
out  its  lesson.  "Waverley"  began  with  hardly  a  thought 

134 


PLOT 

of  plot  at  all.  Its  author  admired  the  Irish  scenes  of 
Miss  Edgeworth's  "Castle  Rackrent,"  the  Scotch  scenes 
of  Elizabeth  Hamilton's  "Cottagers  of  Glenburnie";  and 
he  was  led  astray  by  the  plotlessness  of  both  his  models. 
Only  as  the  great  master  warmed  to  his  work  did  his 
genius  grow  warm  within  him  and  give  purpose  and 
direction  to  the  erstwhile  rambling  tale.  With  Jane 
Austen,  the  calmer,  more  self-centred  thinker,  the  error 
in  her  first  plot  was  her  own ;  and  only  in  contemplating 
the  completed  work  could  her  artistic  eye  detect  its  over- 
emphasis, and  so  soften,  the  outlines  of  her  later  novels. 

Most  striking  of  all  Scott's  plots  is  that  in  "The  Bride 
of  Lammermoor,"  published  in  1819.  Taking  as  his 
theme  a  tragic  legend  of  his  own  land,  he  seemed  to  im- 
bibe with  it  all  the  gloom,  the  world-woe,  of  the  old 
Northern  sagas.  Fate,  a  savage  Fate,  dominates  the  tale 
atevery  point.  A  Romeo  and  Juliet  of  the  North  involve 
in  their  hopeless  passion  the  ruin  of  both  their  houses, 
until  the  Juliet,  forced  into  marriage  with  another,  goes 
insane  and  slays  her  unwelcome  husband  on  the  bridal 
night.  In  a  mere  resume,  this  may  seem  quite  as  external 
a  plot  as  are  most  of  Scott's ;  but  the  tale  itself  deals  not 
with  the  incidents,  but  with  the  rising  tide  of  passion, 
which  they  incoherently  express.  "The  Bride  of  Lam- 
mermoor," therefore,  marks  again  a  step  in  plot  develop- 
ment. It  is  like  the  work  of  Miss  Austen  in  its  depend-  . 
ence  on  emotion,  on  the  internal  life.  But  it  adds  to 
emotion  a  cumulative  intensity  which  is  Byronic.  And 
it  summons  to  its  aid  that  overpowering  dominance  of 
Fate,  which  links  it  to  classic  tragedy. 

In  the  first  twenty  years  of  the  nineteenth  century  one 

135 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

can  thus  find  isolated  examples  of  perfected  plot;  but 
there  was  no  universal  recognition  of  its  importance,  nor 
of  its  need  for  internal  depth.  The  most-talked-of  work 
of  fiction  in  the  year  1819  seems  to  have  been  not  "The 
Bride  of  Lammermoor,"  but  Thomas  Hope's  "Anas- 
tasius,"  a  splendid,  gorgeous,  picaresque  tale  of  Eastern 
rogueries  and  adventure,  with  no  more  plot  in  it  than 
"Gil  Bias."  And  in  1821  all  London  was  reading  and 
raving  over  Pierce  Egan's  "Life  in  London,  or  Tom  and 
Jerry,"  which  is  so  hopelessly  not  a  novel,  not  even  a 
piece  of  literature  at  all,  that  I  can  only  ask  the  reader 
who  has  never  seen  this  Caliban  to  look  the  book  over 
sometime  as  a  curiosity. 

The  decade  from  1825  to  1835  was  notably  barren  of 

English  novels  of  the  highest  rank.     Scott  had  done  his 

best  work,  and  under  pressure  of  a  grim 

The  Develop-        necessity  was  doing  his  worst.     Cooper 


Balzac  Marryat  in  Great  Britain  were  the  chief 

writers  of  English  fiction.  For  the  first 
time  the  supremacy  in  novel  writing  passed  from  England 
over  to  France. 

In  this  examination  of  plot  it  has  not  previously  seemed 
necessary  to  follow  French  fiction,  because  France  awoke 
more  slowly  to  a  recognition  of  the  novel's  art.  As  early 
as  1733  the  Abbe  Prevost  had  written  one  tale,  "Manon 
Lescaut,"  which  contains  a  fairly  definite  though  rather 
haphazard  plot.  But  even  this  much  unity  was  only  a 
happy  accident  ;  for  the  Abbe's  other  tales  are  as  rambling 
as  the  idlest  of  the  old  romances.  What  France  caught 
from  Richardson  was  his  sentiment,  not  his  unity;  and 

136 


PLOT 

under  the  leadership  of  Rousseau  the  French  novel  had 
become  a  mere  bundle  of  sentimental  reflections  and  pic- 
turesque descriptions.  It  became  also  autobiographical,  a 
sort  of  public  confessional,  wherein  under  thinnest  dis- 
guise the  writer  poured  out  his  own  feelings,  told  his  own 
experiences  and  affaires  du  cozur.  This  offered,  of 
course,  delightful  opportunity  to  the  writer.  Friends 
could  be  portrayed  with  generous  compliment,  and  foes 
revealed  in  their  true  hideousness.  It  was  what  Madame 
Lafayette  had  done,  what  Rousseau  had  done,  and  what 
Madame  de  Stael  and  others  did  in  Napoleon's  day.  It 
was  interesting;  but  it  was  scarce  a  novel.  The  form 
came  too  close  to  actual  life,  which,  as  we  have  elsewhere 
pointed  out,  is  plotless,  just  because  it  is  composed  of  the 
loose  ends  of  a  thousand  plots. 

French  fiction  begins  to  assume  its  modern  aspect  only 
with  the  rise  of  Hugo  and  Balzac.  Hugo's  first  novel, 
"Hans  of  Iceland,"  appeared  in  1825,  his  celebrated 
"Notre  Dame"  in  1830.  Balzac's  "Last  Chouan"  was 
published  in  1829,  his  "Eugenie  Grandet"  in  1832,  "Pere 
Goriot"  in  1834.  George  Sand's  "Indiana"  came  out  in 
1832.  Then  followed  Merimee  and  Gautier.  This  makes 
a  remarkable  group  of  celebrated  writers.  With  them  the 
supremacy  of  the  novel  passed  over  to  France,  where,  so 
far  as  form,  as  mere  technique,  is  concerned,  some  critics 
declare  it  has  ever  since  remained. 

In  "Hans  of  Iceland"  the  external,  adventure  plot  is 
clearly  marked.  In  Hugo's  greater  work,  "Notre  Dame," 
he  presents,  on  a  broad  canvas  and  with  many  figures,  a 
plot  loose  but  powerful,  and  gathering  with  cumulative 
intensity  toward  the  end,  a  design  more  than  the  equal 

137 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

of  most  of  Scott's.  With  Balzac  we  come  to  that  most 
marvellous,  completed  world,  the  "Comedie  Humaine" 
The  design  of  this  lifework  of  a  master  has  been  so  often 
described  and  praised  that  I  need  speak  of  it  but  briefly 
here.  It  offers  us  another  interesting  advance.  Plot  is 
extended  beyond  the  limits  of  a  single  tale,  and  in  a  vague 
form  spreads  itself  through  more  than  forty  separate 
novels.  Each  of  these  has  its  own  completed  plot,  what 
we  might  call  the  threefold  plot,  the  march  of  a  series 
of  outward  events  to  a  catastrophe,  the  sympathetic 
tracing  of  some  great  emotion  to  its  usually  tragic  climax, 
and  also  the  development  of  a  character  through  these 
grim  experiences  of  life.  With  such  firmness,  such  surety 
is  all  this  done  in  the  majority  of  Balzac's  works,  that  I 
know  no  better  counsel  for  the  student  of  form  than  that 
he  should  sketch  for  himself  again  and  again  the  plan, 
the  outline,  and  the  progress,  of  some  one  of  Balzac's 
works,  perhaps  "Pere  Goriot."  Nor  does  the  author's 
plan  cease  with  the  single  work.  Characters  which  have 
been  shown  us  either  in  glimpse  or  full  detail  at  one  stage 
of  their  career  are  caught  up  again  in  some  later  book 
and  shown  in  some  new  light,  either  as  principal  or 
subordinate,  that  we  may  see  how  far  they  fulfill  the  prom- 
ise which  was  in  them. 

If  there  is  any  possible  criticism  of  the  individual  novels 
of  Balzac,  it  is  that  they  attempt  to  cover  too  wide  a  field. 
There  are  so  many  characters,  and  each  is  so  dwelt  upon, 
so  lingered  over,  that  we  lose  the  effect  of  concentration. 
In  Victor  Hugo's  later  great  work,  "Les  Miserables," 
this  defect  of  diffuseness  is  even  more  strongly  marked. 

Generally  speaking,  however,  the  charge  of  diffuseness 

138 


PLOT 

can  not  be  brought  against  the  French  novelists.  Such 
is  not  the  spirit  of  France,  where  the  power  of  form,  of 
concentration,  is  always  strongly  felt.  Indeed,  its  merits 
were  being  impressed  upon  the  French  novel  by  Balzac's 
own  contemporaries.  Gautier  and  even  more  Merimee  are 
in  this  respect  an  improvement  upon  the  greater  master. 

In  England  the  tendency  to  a  "sprawling  formlessness" 
becomes  very  marked  in  the  writers  who  succeeded  Scott. 
The  "Wizard  of  the  North"  had,  especially 
The  English  jn  some  of  fas  historic  novels,  such  as 
"Ivanhoe,"  introduced  many  figures ;  but 
he  was  by  instinct  a  story-teller,  and  his 
story  held  always  the  centre  of  the  stage.  There  is  no 
surer  test  of  this  than  the  fact  that  Scott  continues  a 
favorite  author  among  children.  Employing  this  same 
test,  we  see  at  once  that  the  obverse  is  true  of  Scott's 
successors,  Disraeli  and  even  Bulwer.  Disraeli  is  com-  / 
monly  said  to  have  originated  the  political  novel;  and 
whatever  interest  his  fulminations  still  retain  is  assuredly 
due  to  their  historic  rather  than  their  fictional  character. 
They  are  brilliant  records  of  men  and  motives,  of  mono- 
logues and  meditations,  in  the  era  which  their  writer  so 
largely  dominated.  Bulwer  also,  painstakingly  and  per- 
sistently as  he  toiled  at  the  work  to  which  he  had  nobly 
dedicated  his  life,  never  once  succeeded  in  keeping  a  story 
fully  alive.  It  was  half  drowned  under  history  as  in 
"Harold,"  or  under  archaeology  as  in  "Pompeii."  It 
starved  amid  multiplicity  of  life,  choked  with  cynicism  as 
in  "Pelham,"  or  with  philosophy  as  in  "Kenelm  Chil- 
lingly." 

Probably  the  English  novel  reached  its  widest  limit  of 

139 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

complexity  under  the  masters  of  the  next  two  decades, 
Dickens  and  Thackeray.  Dickens'  great  initial  success, 
"Pickwick  Papers,"  contains  over  three  hundred  and  fifty 
characters.  It  is  charming,  whimsical,  a  wonderful  gal- 
lery of  portraits  painted  with  unending  vigor  and  humor. 
It  is  anything  you  like  except  a  story.  That  it  never 
pretended  to  be.  It  started  to  give  a  series  of  scenes  of 
English  life,  in  shilling  parts,  uniting  these  by  the  same 
device  Addison  had  employed  in  the  "Spectator"  over  a 
century  before,  a  club,  the  members  of  which  should  give 
their  views  and  experiences.  It  was  the  direct  successor, 
though  of  course  in  a  vastly  higher  type,  to  Egan's  crude 
"Life  in  London,"  to  which  Thackeray  compared  it ;  and 
like  its  predecessor  of  fifteen  years  before,  it  "swept  the 
town."  But  it  is  called  a  novel  only  by  careless  associa- 
tion with  its  author's  later  works. 

That  he  himself  felt  the  formlessness  of  his  first  suc- 
cess is  evident  from  the  care  he  took  with  the  "story"  in 
all  his  later  books.  As  we  read  back,  indeed,  through  his 
letters  and  his  notebooks  we  find  that  the  "story"  ques- 
tion troubled  him  more  than  any  other  part  of  his  labor. 
He  had  always  easily  at  hand  a  dozen  groups  of  keenly 
realized  characters,  balanced  in  humorous  and  dramatic 
attitude  toward  one  another — but  he  complains  that  he 
can  not  get  them  to  moving.  He  has  too  many  threads ; 
they  will  not  all  weave  into  a  single  strand.  He  notes 
again  and  again  pathetically,  almost  despairingly,  that 
the  story  halts,  he  can  not  see  his  way.  And  then  in  some 
triumphant  burst  he  declares  that  the  end  is  in  sight  at 
last,  "I  am  writing  rapidly." 

In  only  two  of  his  works,  and  those  among  his  latest, 
140 


PLOT 

does  the  story  rise  clearly  above  this  huge  mass  of  char- 
acters and  comments,  which  confuse  it.  If  we  bar  these 
two,  "Dombey  and  Son"  and  "A  Tale  of  Two  Cities,"  it 
is  interesting  to  approach  a  lover  of  Dickens  with  the 
challenge  to  tell  off-hand  the  plot  in  any  one  of  the 
master's  so  often  read  and  repeated  tales. 

Thackeray  had  a  much  easier  control  of  plot  than  his 
great  contemporary.  Yet  even  Thackeray  could  not  whip 
his  multitude  of  figures  into  orderly  and  unified  pro- 
gression. Both  "Pendennis"  and  "The  Newcomes"  are 
confessedly  wandering,  disjointed  tales.  You  pick  them 
up  and  lay  them  down,  interested  in  the  incidents,  deeply 
touched  and  swayed  by  the  characters  and  meditations, 
but  not  carried  onward  toward  some  great  culminating 
point  and  power,  not  swept  away  on  some  surging,  irre- 
sistible tide  of  passionate  emotion. 

"Vanity  Fair"  is  much  better,  but  even  here  we  find 
a  twofold  plot,  two  stories  harnessed  side  by  side  and 
driven  as  a  team  with  dexterous  skill.  Always  you  are  con- 
scious of  this.  Unfortunately,  an  author  must  write  with 
a  single  pen,  hence  one  member  of  the  team  is  usually 
reined  in,  champing  and  prancing,  till  the  other  can  catch 
up.  Amelia  Smedley  and  her  tale  have  only  a  chance 
connection  with  Becky  Sharp  and  hers.  "Let  me  show 
you,"  the  author  seems  to  be  saying,  "how  a  good  girl 
may  be  happy  though  she  is  very  silly,  and  how  a  bad 
girl  may  be  unhappy  though  she  is  very  clever."  This 
is  undoubtedly  moral,  if  unconvincing ;  but  it  is  not  artistic 
in  that  higher  sense  where  art  is  nature.  Nature  does  not 
read  us  her  lessons  in  assorted,  antithetic  pairs. 

So  far  as  plot  goes,  Thackeray's  most  successful  effort 
141 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

is  undoubtedly  "Henry  Esmond."  Though  even  here  it 
is  not  difficult  to  detect  a  structural  weakness.  It  seems 
clear  that  the  plot  shifted  as  the  author  advanced  until  its 
conclusion  became  a  hybrid  thing,  imperfectly  grafted 
upon  the  original  design. 

Glancing  back  over  the  last  few  paragraphs,  we  cer- 
tainly do  not  seem  to  be  establishing  any  thesis  as  to  the 
primal  necessity  of  plot.    Rather  as  we 
pass  from  one  wide-read  master  to  an- 
Unity  other  we  seem  to  discover  a  disconcerting 

lack  either  of  feeling  for  or  success  in 
attaining  unity.  And  when  to  Dickens  and  to  Thackeray 
and  to  Hugo  in  his  "Miserables"  we  add  their  contem- 
porary, Dumas,  with  his  thrilling  tales  of  adventure  con- 
tinued indefinitely  through  volume  after  volume,  almost 
as  guiltless  of  unity  as  some  mediaeval  romance,  one  might 
begin  to  question  whether  plot  is  necessary  after  all. 
These  masters,  however,  worked  in  what  was  still  a 
formative  period ;  the  technique  of  the  novel  was  not  yet 
fully  understood.  They  were  great  in  spite  of,  not  be- 
cause of,  lack  of  concentration.  And  let  us  keep  in  mind 
that  each  one  of  these  writers  felt  the  value  of  the  plot, 
and  struggled  to  maintain  it  in  face  of  the  almost  over- 
whelming difficulties  of  attempting  to  paint  all  life,  mov- 
ing amid  innumerable  characters.  Dickens  never  wrote 
a  second  "Pickwick  Papers."  Thackeray's  "Yellowplush 
Papers"  were  his  early  work,  mere  preludes  to  "Vanity 
Fair"  and  "Esmond." 

Moreover,  as  opposed  to  these  incomplete  forms  we 
have  the  work  of  Balzac,  who  did  manage  an  almost  in- 
finite complexity  without  confusion;  and  we  have  the 

142 


PLOT 

whole  course  of  French  literature  since  Balzac.  Dumas, 
and  in  lesser  degree  Hugo,  are  merely  the  exceptions  to 
the  almost  passionate  devotion  to  form  which  the  French 
novelists  developed. 

In  America,  too,  the  art  of  construction  advanced. 
Hawthorne  is  universally  accepted  as  one  of  the  great 
masters  of  plot.  In  his  "Scarlet  Letter"  there  are  really 
but  three  characters.1  Around  them  we  are  made  con- 
scious of  a  whole  passing  world,  yet  our  attention  is 
never  for  a  moment  distracted  from  those  central  three. 
And  with  them,  it  is  the  inner  not  the  outer  being  that 
we  scrutinize.  The  frame,  the  bodily  garb  of  Hester 
Prynne  may  be  familiar  to  most  of  us;  but  the  inmost 
passions  of  her  soul  are  even  more  familiar.  It  is  with 
these  that  the  story  deals,  as  with  scant  pause  for  inci- 
dent it  sweeps  us  on  and  up  to  a  catastrophe  not  sprung 
from  accident  but  embodied  in  the  very  beginning.  To 
follow  one  of  the  author's  own  favorite  symbolisms,  the 
final  poisonous  flower  lay  in  embryo  in  the  very  first  seed 
sown.  We  feel,  we  surely  feel,  that  we  are  dealing  at 
last  with  inevitable  things.  Not  in  the  chances  of  life, 
but  in  the  growth  or  shrivelling  of  our  own  souls,  lie 
reward  and  punishment. 

If  Hawthorne  in  almost  every  one  of  his  novels  pre- 
sented us  with  a  story  of  restrained  perfection,  an  har- 
monious unit  of  simplicity  scarce  excelled  through  all 
our  literature,  he  was  not  alone  in  the  Anglo-Saxon 
reaction  against  complexity.  Of  even  earlier  date  than 
the  "Scarlet  Letter"  is  Charlotte  Bronte's  "Jane  Eyre"; 
and  less  than  a  decade  later  George  Eliot  began  her  work. 

kittle  Pearl  is  not  a  character  but  a  poetic  symbol. 

143 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

To  account  for  the  unity  and  strength  of  plot  in  "Jane 
Eyre"  is  easy.  It  was  the  author's  singleness  of  thought 
and  earnestness  of  emotion  which  prevented  her  plot 
from  ever  straying  for  one  moment.  To  explain  the 
marvellous  perfection  of  George  Eliot's  early  plots 
is  a  more  difficult  problem;  for  they  cover  a  wider 
field,  more  numerous  characters  and  more  varied  emo- 
tions. There  is  in  them  none  of  that  narrow,  passion- 
ate intensity  by  whi^h  both  author  and  reader  may 
be  rushed  blindly  alo^g.  l/Whether  we  turn  to  "Silas 
Marner"  or  "The  Mill  on  the  Floss"  or  even  "Adam 
Bede,"  we  find  ourselves  guided  through  the  network 
of  human  feelings  by  a  spirit  guide  serenely  calm. 
The  unity  which  we  recognize,  and  the  cumulative 
force,  are  there  by  the  volitional  choice  of  a  conscious 
artist. 

In  her  later  works,  "Daniel  Deronda"  and  "Middle- 
march,"  George  Eliot  attempted  to  cover  an  even  broader 
canvass.  She  yielded  to  the  influence  of  her  great  British 
predecessors  in  their  examples  of  complexity.  And  her 
success  was  no  greater  than  theirs.  We  may  take  Balzac's 
broadly  comprehensive  world  as  our  ideal  of  perfection  of 
plot,  or  we  may  take  Hawthorne's  narrow  intensity,  each 
of  us  choosing  according  to  taste ;  but  by  no  amount  of 
blindness  can  we  take  the  mass  of  British  writers  be- 
tween the  eighteen  twenties  and  the  sixties,  Thackeray, 
Dickens,  Bulwer,  Disraeli,  G.  P.  R.  James,  Ainsworth, 
Lever,  and  their  generation. 

With  Charles  Reade  and  Wilkie  Collins  and  Kingsley 
we  reach  men  of  later  mold,  authors  in  whom  the  sense 
of  plot  is  much  more  strongly  developed.  Beyond  them 

144 


PLOT 

we  come  to  the  generation  of  living  men.  The  first  novel 
of  George  Meredith  appeared  in  1859;  of  Ebers  and  of 
Blackmore  in  1864,  of  Mark  Twain  in 
1869,  of  Hardy  in  1871,  and  Howells  in 
1872.  It  is  no  part  of  my  intent  to  criti- 
cise their  work.  In  a  later  chapter  I  shall  seek  to  make 
some  general  divisions  based  partly  on  what  has  here  been 
said  of  plot.  But  for  the  moment,  looking  at  these  works 
of  contemporaries  still  among  us,  I  would  only  point 
out  that  the  plots  of  Hardy  and  of  Ebers  are  striking 
and  complete.  Those  of  Blackmore  and  Meredith  seem 
a  little  more  loosely  woven.  Twain's  first  published  vol- 
ume of  fiction  was  "Innocents  Abroad/'  and  Howells* 
"Their  Wedding  Journey,"  each  of  these  a  sketch  of 
travel,  with  only  the  thinnest  thread  of  connecting  plot. 
In  other  words,  during  the  past  forty  years  we  can  find 
plot  performing  almost  every  possible  office  in  fiction, 
from  the  minor  duty  of  lending  a  touch  of  sympathy  or 
humor  to  a  book  of  travels,  to  its  major  part  as  chief 
factor  in  some  mighty  moving,  irresistibly  advancing 
tale. 

Of  the  minor  questions  involved  in  the  plot's  technique, 
some  have  been  touched  in  passing.  The  beginning  must 
establish  us  at  a  clear  starting  place,  and  suggest  whither 
we  are  to  go.  The  opening  chapters  seek  to  catch  our 
interest,  or  who  will  look  beyond?  This  interest,  once 
aroused,  should  be  increased  in  intensity  and  the  rate  of 
movement  should  increase  with  it  until  the  result,  the 
catastrophe,  comes  upon  us  with  a  rush.  Then  the  fewer 
loose  ends  that  lie  around  for  cleaning  up,  the  better. 
Such  admitted  principles  hardly  need  repeated  enumera- 

145 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

tion,  though  of  course  in  those  novel  forms  where  plot 
is  subordinate,  their  weight  decreases. 

All  these  details  fall  back  largely  upon  the  earlier  sug- 
gestion that  the  novel  should  be  regarded  as  a  set  of  steps. 
A  writer  may  begin  these  with  the  sudden  perpendicular 
rise  of  incident,  to  lift  us  into  interest;  or  he  may  begin 
on  the  horizontal  plane,  with  character  description.  We 
climb  his  first  steps  leisurely,  and  linger  on  the  level 
tread  between.  But,  as  we  get  more  and  more  the  sense 
of  altitude,  of  being  raised  out  of  our  own  existence  into 
an  atmosphere  of  passion  and  intensity,  we  mount  faster, 
eager  for  the  summit.  From  its  height  the  view  outspread 
before  us  is  not,  or  should  not  be,  the  idle  vision  of  a  child. 
It  should  offer  us  in  some  sort  a  new  outlook  upon  life. 
If  I  may  repeat  what  I  have  already  said  in  speaking  of 
Balzac,  the  perfected  plot  should  be  threefold.  \  It  should 
lead  us  to  the  summit  of  our  climb  by  an  interesting 
narrative  of  some  series  of  outward  events  closing  in  a 
catastrophe,  by  a  sympathetic  tracing  of  some  great  emo- 
tion rising  to  a  culmination,  and  also  by  a  thoughtful 
study  of  some  unformed  character  developing  through 
these  experiences  of  life. 


146 


CHAPTER  III 

MOTIVE  AND  VERISIMILITUDE 

The  If  verisimilitude  be  accepted  as  the  cen- 

Beginnings  of  tral  characteristic  of  the  novel,  the  career 
of  the  latter  commences  with  Defoe.  Mr. 
Dawson  has  adopted  this  standpoint  in  his  notable 
''Makers  of  English  Fiction."  Opening  his  book  with 
Defoe,  he  says :  ^He  had  unconsciously  hit  upon  the  pri- 
mary principle  of  fiction,  that  fiction  is  a  kind  of  lie, 
and  that  it  is  useless  to  lie  unless  you  can  lie  so  like  the 
truth  that  you  are  believed."  Hence  Mr.  Dawson  starts 
with  a  discussion  of  Defoe's  early  pamphlets,  "The 
Shortest  Way  with  Dissenters"  and  "True  Relation  of 
the  Apparition  of  One  Mrs.  Veal,"  and  leads  onward 
through  Swift's  "Gulliver."  He  points  out  how,  if  we 
grant  Swift's  one  initial  invention,  a  land  of  midgets  or 
of  giants,  everything  that  follows  is  not  only  logical  but 
necessary,  is  painstakingly  true. 

This  does  not  mean  that  with  either  of  these  authors 
verisimilitude  was  the  conscious  end  in  view.  In  his 
"Shortest  Way"  Defoe  aimed  to  confound  his  political 
opponents.  /  By  his  "True  Apparition"  he  planned  to 
advertise  an  unsalable  book  on  death. )  Swift  sought  to 
insult  humanity.  What  each  man  almost  accidentally  did, 
wholly  apart  from  what  he  intended  to  do,  has  given 
him  fame. 

Here  we  stumble  at  once  upon  that  involution  of 

147 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

verisimilitude  with  other  "motives,"  which  makes  it 
easier  in  our  present  work  to  treat  of  them  together.1 
Verisimilitude  long  since  rose  from  the  position  of  an 
accident  to  that  of  a  central  aim.  It  should  be,  we  are 
assured  by  many  writers,  the  sole  "motive"  of  the  novel- 
ist. He  must  seek  only  to  present  life  as  it  exists.  We 
are  warned  that,  the  moment  any  further  purpose  creeps 
into  a  writer's  mind,  it  obscures  his  "picture  of  life,"  it 
brings  in  bias,  and  the  picture  becomes  distorted.  In 
this  way  the  greater  value  is  sacrificed  for  the  less.  The 
temporary  purpose  may  be  attained;  adherents  may  be 
gained  for  some  neoteric  doctrine;  but  the  world  in 
general  is  plunged  deeper  into  error,  into  the  misunder- 
standing of  humanity. 

Perhaps  this  line  of  argument  is  largely  theoretical. 
Perhaps  the  aim  to  paint  truly  may  not  be  impossible 
of  harmonization  with  other  aims.  Still,  there  exists  an 
almost  unanimous  agreement  among  critics  that  the  main 
motive_sJTOi4ibe  the  presjentationjQf_truth.  So,  we  may 
^freat  motive  and  verisimilitude  here  in  single  discussion. 

Historically,  as  we  have  seen,  fiction  was  long  in 
arriving  at  the  conviction  of  its  own  essential  need  of 
v.  verisimilitude.  But  once  this  recogni- 

of  the  tion  was  attained,  the  law  was  adopted 

Critics  unreservedly,  and  has  since  remained 

perhaps  the  one  unquestioned  requisite 

*A  further  source  of  confusion  here  has  been  already  pointed 
out.  By  "motive"  I  would  be  understood  to  mean  not  the  per- 
sonal motives  that  secretly  urged  on  the  writer,  the  practical  need 
for  money,  the  trumpet  call  of  fame,  or  the  altruistic  desire  of 
elevating  mankind— not  the  general  motive  in  the  man,  but  the 
specific  motive  in  the  book,  the  particular  influence  which  it  aims 
to  have  upon  the  reader. 

148 


MOTIVE  AND  VERISIMILITUDE 

of  the  novel.  The  only  dispute  concerning  it  rises  from 
the  fact  that  truth  evades  mathematical  demarcation. 
"Where  is  truth?"  asked  doubting  Pilate.  "It  is  here," 
cries  the  realistic  novelist  vehemently,  "here  in  my  books, 
and  only  here."  "Nay,  its  higher  form  is  here,"  insists 
the  idealist,  "here  untainted  with  life's  errors."  "Here, 
here!"  echoes  the  purpose  novel.  Even  the  romanticist 
finds  truth  within  his  heart.  Hawthorne  has  urged  this 
in  his  prefaces.  He  tells,  for  instance,  of  the  finding  of 
the  elixir  of  life.  Grant  him  what  Swift  demanded,  the 
initial  absurdity  of  the  elixir's  existence — if  absurdity, 
alas,  it  be — and  all  the  rest  is  real.  The  discoverers  act 
exactly  as  we  ourselves  might  act  in  the  situation.  The 
author  simply  conceives  the  human  soul  as  facing  new 
conditions,  and  so  manages  to  cast  a  new  light,  a  strangely 
vivid  light,  into  its  deeps. 

Thus  the  dispute  over  verisimilitude  often  waxes 
warm,  but  none  of  the  combatants  are  its  enemies. 
Each  of  the  doughty  champions  has  caught  a  different 
glimpse  of  truth  in  its  many  sided  beauty ;  and  each  one 
charges  with  keen-pointed  pen  in  defense  of  the  perfec- 
tion of  his  own  picture  of  the  fair  veiled  lady.  The  con- 
test just  at  present  seems  to  lie  mainly  between  the 
photographic  writer  on  one  side  and  a  score  of  dis- 
united antagonists  upon  the  other.  Few  of  us  are  willing 
to  admit  that  photography  is  the  highest  art.  As  Mr. 
Frederick  Bird  has  it,  "Verisimilitude  not  verity  is 
wanted  in  fiction.  The  observer  notes  his  facts,  and  then 
the  artist  seizes  on  the  ideas  behind  them." 

Of  somewhat  earlier  date  was  the  almost  hysterical 
attack  upon  the  purpose  novel.  Its  keen-eyed  opponents 

149 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

claimed  to  detect  every  faintest  intrusion  of  the  lecturer. 
Sir  Walter  Besant  by  upholding  moral  purpose  in  his 
address  on  the  "Art  of  Fiction"  elicited  the  protest  of 
Henry  James.  Thackeray  and  Dickens,  Mr.  James 
pointed  out,  might  moralize  as  they  would.  Theirs  had 
been  but  the  childhood  of  art;  but  as  to  present-day 
writers  he  insisted,  "The  air  of  reality  seems  to  me  to  be 
the  supreme  virtue  of  a  novel — the  merit  on  which  all 
its  other  merits  (including  that  conscious  moral  purpose 
of  which  Mr.  Besant  speaks)  helplessly  and  submissively 
depend." 

"I  think  it  is  very  bad  taste,"  writes  Valera,  the  noted 
Spanish  novelist,  "always  impertinent,  and  often  pedantic, 
to  attempt  to  prove  theses  by  writing  stories."  Marion 
Crawford  is  even  more  vehement.  "In  art  of  all  kinds," 
he  says,  "the  moral  lesson  is  a  mistake.  It  is  one  thing  to 
exhibit  an  ideal  worthy  to  be  imitated.  ...  It  is  quite 
another  matter  to  write  a  'guide  to  morality*  or  a  'hand- 
book for  practical  sinners'  and  call  either  one  a  novel, 
no  matter  how  much  fiction  it  may  contain."  Gogol,  the 
first  of  the  great  Russian  novelists,  pushes  his  demand 
for  exact  truth  so  far  that  it  turns  a  somersault  and  be- 
comes pure  imagination.  He  says,  if  I  may  trust  his 
translators,  "I  have  studied  life  as  it  really  is,  not  in 
dreams  of  the  imagination;  and  thus  I  have  risen  to  a 
conception  of  Him  who -is  the  source  of  all  life."  The 
critics  also  recognize  the  growing  tendency.  "The  de- 
mand for  strict  fidelity  to  nature,"  says  Mr.  Traill, 
"has  become  imperious." 

We  seem  then  to  be  driving  from  the  field  every  pos- 
sible motive  except  the  revelation  of  truth.  I  am  not* 

150 


MOTIVE  AND  VERISIMILITUDE 

sure  that  in  this,  the  practice  always  corresponds  with 
the  theory,  even  in  the  writings  of  truth's  most  vehement 
advocates.  Perhaps,  as  in  our  discussion  of  plot,  we  may 
gain  some  light  by  an  historical  survey. 

Defoe's  verisimilitude,  as  has  been  often  pointed  out, 
is  founded  upon  his  insistence  on  minor_details.     So 
elaborately,  so  minutely,  does  he  visual- 


Method  f  the  ize  each  trifle  connected  with  his 
First  Novelists  tions,  that  we  see  them  physically  com- 
plete. Our  imagination  is  not  called  on 
to  give  body  to  these  full  rounded  figures.  Most  novel- 
ists for  instance  are  content  to  tell  us  of  the  contemporary 
hero,  that  he  is  "stylishly  dressed."  Defoe  gives  us  every 
article  of  attire  with  its  shape,  color,  and  quality  of 
cloth.  Frequently  he  even  tickets  it  with  the  price. 
Hence  the  reader,  being  relieved  of  all  creative  effort, 
his  imagination  being  lulled  to  sleep,  feels  himself  as- 
suredly moving  in  a  world  of  fact. 

With  Swift,  verisimilitude  is  gained  by  intellectual 
rather  than  physical  completeness.  A  whole  new  world 
has  been  conceived,  each  part  logically  fitting  in  with 
every  other.  There  are  no  breaks,  no  cracks,  in  the 
amazing  microcosm,  to  make  us  realize  that  it  is  only 
artificial  after  all.  Addison  and  Steele  jest  with  us  ;  they 
summon  us  to  whim  and  fantasy  and  humor.  Swift's 
irony  is  never  confessed;  he  is  portentously  solemn  and 
positive  and  matter-of-fact. 

Richardson's  verisimilitude  is  of  yet  other  origin.  On 
the  whole  I  incline  to  call  it  even  morejnstinctive  than 
that  of  his  earlier  rivals.  He  set  out  to  give  ignorant 
folk  examples  of  letter-writing.  In  earlier  life  he  himself 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

had  written  letters  for  just  such  girls  as  Pamela,  letters 
which  the  lasses  seem  to  have  despatched  as  their  own. 
He  had  learned,  as  fully  as  man  ever  can,  to  place  him- 
self in  the  woman's  situation,  and  not  only  speak  but 
feel  as  she.  So  Pamela  was  real,  not  in  the  detail  of 
outward  circumstance  surrounding  her,  this  is  often  un- 
convincing; not  in  the  logical  construction  and  harmony 
of  her  story,  this  has  been  often  and  justly  ridiculed  for 
its  falsity  to  life;  but  in  the  far  deeper  reality  of  her 
being,  and  of  the  springs  of  action  which  impelled  her. 
The  ladies  of  the  day,  as  ignorant  of  outward  life  pos- 
sibly as  Richardson  himself,  were  competent  critics  of 
this  inner  life;  and  in  unanimous  chorus  they  cried  that 
Pamela  was  "woman."  /If  Defoe's  truth  was  physical 
and  Swift's  intellectual,!  Richardson's  we  may  well  call 
emotional.  J 

In  no  pne"  of  these  three  writers,  however,  do  we  find 
what  we  have  been  seeking,  what  might  be  called  the 
modern  attitude  of  the  novel,  truth  presented  merely  for 
its  own  sake  as  truth.  Each  writer  made  some  other 
motive  avowedly  superior.  Richardson,  the  one  uni- 
versally acknowledged  novelist  of  the  three,  is  particu- 
larly emphatic  in  insisting  that  he  writes  not  to  show 
you  what  woman  is,  but  what  she  should  be.  He  has  a 
"Moral  Purpose"  with  large  initial  capitals.  He  will 
teach  young  girls  to  discard  their  follies  and  control  their 
passions;  so  shall  they  gain  good  husbands  in  the  end.1 

'In  a  critical  discussion  which  Richardson  placed  at  the  end  of 

Clarissa  Harlowe"  he  says,  "It  will  be  seen  by  this  time  that  the 

author  had  a  great  end  in  view" ;  and  he  goes  on  to  explain  that 

this  end  is,  under  the  guise  of  diversion,  to  inculcate  Christian 

doctrines.    So  also  in  a  letter  sent  with  the  closing  volumes  to 

152 


MOTIVE  AND  VERISIMILITUDE 

The  full  modern  doctrine  as  to  verisimilitude  is  first 

proclaimed  by  Fielding.     He  plunged  into  novel  writing 

on  purpose,  be  it  remembered,  to  attack 

Development  of    Richardson ;    and    it    was    the    latter's 

^[he'Early^        falsity  that  sPecially  offended  him;  not 

Realists  falsity  to  woman  but  general  falsity  to 

life.      Therefore    Fielding    started    out 

with  the  deliberate  purpose  of  presenting  Ufe .  as  .it-  really 

,  is^  His  critical  remarks  are  constantly  insisting  upon 
this ;  and  most  of  his  contemporaries  accepted  his  work  at 
his  own  estimate,  and  declared  that  here  at  least  was 
a  true  picture  of  existence. 

Yet  it  is  well  to  remember  that  the  chorus  of  approval 
which  greeted  Fielding  was  not  unanimous.  There  were 
dissentient  voices,  among  which  Dr.  Johnson's  rang  out 
loudly;  and  it  is  certain  that  even  "Tom  Jones"  would 
not  be  accepted  as  a  model  of  verisimilitude  to-day.  We 
have  been  so  repeatedly  assured  that  it  succeeded  tri- 
umphantly in  its  main  object  of  giving  a  perfect  picture 
of  the  manners  and  morals  of  its  time,  that  I  shall  not 
burden  this  present  work  with  too  close  an  analysis  of 
the  probability  of  such  scenes  as  the  famous  graveyard  ,/ 
contest  of  Molly  Seagrim  or  the  sudden  prison-cell 
repentance  of  the  hero.  Suffice  it  to  point  out  that  we 
have  already  in  the  previous  chapter  criticised  the  plot  as 
being  brought  to  its  denouement  through  a  series  of  im- 

%probable  coincidences,  and  as  being  dependent  through- 
out on  the  machinations  of  a  melodramatic  villain.  We 

Lady  Bradsaigh,  he  writes,  "they  appear  in  the  humble  guise  of 
novel  only  by  the  way  of  accommodation  to  the  manners  and 
taste  of  an  age  overwhelmed  with  luxury  and  abandoned  to 
sound  and  senselessness." 

153 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

shall  also  in  a  following  chapter  have  to  take  some  slight 
exception  to  the  characters  themselves.  None  of  these 
criticisms,  however,  detract  frornihe  central  point,  that  in 
Fielding  we  have  the  positive  enunciation  of  a  great 
^jjjcinciple^j^hich  has  assuredly  been  a  main  factor  in  the 
novel's  rise. 

Smollett,  most  notable  of  the  disciples  of  Fielding,  is 
even  more  successful  than  his  master  in  adherence  to 
this  principle.  His  effort  in  this  direction  was  made 
easier  by  his  indifference  to  plot,  which  relieved  him 
from  all  appeal  to  coincidence  and  from  a  too  implicit 
dependence  upon  villainy.  Moreover  the  narrow  auto- 
biographic character  of  his  works,  the  fact  that  he  does 
not,  like  Fielding,  create  his  characters  and  incidents  but 
mainly  confines  himself  to  describing  such  as  he  has 
actually  seen,  this  certainly  aids  him  in  keeping  close  to 
truth.  He  has  the  virtues  of  his  failings.  (The  pho- 
tographic novel,vSvith  both  its  wisdom  and  unwisdom, 
looks  back  to  Smollett. 

From  this  time  onward  the  question  of  verisimilitude 
was  never  absent  from  the  novers  technique.  Writers 
assume  toward  it  widely  differing  atti- 

tU(kS'  bUt  ^^  neVer  OVerl°°k  *•      Thdr 

toward  Truth  varieties  of  approach,  which  have  been 
already  suggested,  may  be  marked  out 
as  four  in  number.  From  Fielding's  work  sprang  the 
novel  of  manners,  professing  to  devote  itself,  as  he 
done,  to  the  sketching  of  realistic  but  imaginary  pictures 
of  the  times.  With  this  form  we  soon  reach  the  perfec- 
tion of  accuracy.  There  could  be  no  sketches  of  one 
little  corner  of  life,  more  absolutely  true  than  those  of 

154 


MOTIVE  AND  VERISIMILITUDE 

Miss  Austen.  Verity  in  that  direction  could  go  no 
further. 

From  Smollett  came  the  photographic,  autobiographic 
writers,  insisting  in  their  prefaces  that  they  describe  only 
such  people  and  incidents  as  they  themselves  have  en- 
countered. From  Richardson  developed  what  at  least 
in  its  early  days  was  called  the  novel  of  sentiment,  deal- 
ing only  with  "the  workings  of  the  human  heart," 
analyzing  these,  and  professing  to  find  in  the  labor  a 
higher  truth,  a  truer  art,  than  existed  in  external  things. 

As  for  the  romanticists,  the  writers  who  sought  to 
escape  the  tyranny  of  the  actual,  their  treatment  of  veri- 
similitude is  not  unlike  that  of  Swift,  different  as  was 
their  underlying  aim.  Walpole  in  his  "Castle  of 
Otranto"  (1764)  asks  only  the  initial  assumption,  one 
that  all  superstitious  folk,  and  now  a  few  scientists  as 
well,  are  disposed  to  grant.  Once  admit  that  ghosts  may 
exist,  and  that  they  combine  human  feelings  with  other 
than  human  powers,  admit  this,  and  the  "Castle  of 
Otranto"  becomes  logical  throughout,  an  entertaining 
history.  It  is  notable,  in  fact,  that  Walpole  made  some 
study  of  verisimilitude.  In  his  tale  he  deliberately  de- 
serts his  own  day — the  first  of  the  genuine  novelists  to 
do  this — and  places  his  events  in  preceding  centuries,  so 
as  to  get  the  indistinctness  of  outline,  the  vagueness  which 
comes  with  remoteness  of  time  or  place,  and  which 
removes  his  supernatural  events  from  clashing  too 
sharply  with  common  life. 

The  whole  study  of  the  development  of  verisimilitude 
in  the  novels  of  fear  is  very  interesting.  Walpole  is 
frankly  supernatural.  The  first  of  his  followers,  Clara 

155 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

Reeve,  in  her  "Old  English  Baron"  (i 777) ,  explains  that 
she  disapproves  her  predecessor's  attitude,  because  people 
do  not  really  believe  in  ghosts;  hence 
Verisimilitude  sne  plans  to  keep  her  story  within  "the 
Xf"113  utmost  verge  of  probability."  Per- 

sonally I  do  not  feel  nearly  so  positive 
as  does  Miss  Reeve  as  to  just  where  this  dubious 
boundary  line  of  probability  extends;  and  if  it  must 
perforce  be  drawn,  I  should  incline  to  set  it  in  a  locality 
widely  separate  from  hers.  I  remember  reading  her 
story  in  college  student  days,  and  accepting  her  ghost 
with  placid  faith,  rather  admiring,  indeed,  his  dignity 
and  sincerity  of  purpose.  It  never  occurred  to  me  to 
doubt  his  existence;  and  even  now,  when  in  the  light  of 
Miss  Reeve's  own  criticism  and  argument  I  re-read  the 
tale,  I  can  not  follow  it  with  any  single  vestige  of  faith, 
unless  I  accept  the  ghost  in  toto.  Either  he  exists,  or  the 
whole  book  is  a  mere  farrago  of  unexplainable  nonsense.1 

Beckford's  "Vathek"  (1786)  takes  the  bolder  course 
again,  it  deals  frankly  with  magic  and  with  visionary 
scenes.  It  assumes  for  the  writer  the  high  omnipotence 
and  omnipresence  of  Imagination,  follows  its  central  fig- 
ures into  the  Hall  of  Eblis,  which  is  hell  itself,  and  paints 
such  a  vivid,  majestic  picture  of  that  tragic  place  as  no 
reader  is  ever  likely  to  forget. 

Mrs.  Radcliffe  in  her  famous  books  (1789-1797) 
resumes  the  dubious  attitude  of  Miss  Reeve.  We  are 

llt  should  be  noted  that  Waipole  sarcastically  yielded  the  palm 
of  verisimilitude  to  his  follower.  After  ridiculing  the  incongruity 
of  a  ghost  story  "reduced  to  reason  and  probability,"  he  wrote, 
"It  is  so  probable  that  any  trial  for  murder  at  the  Old  Bailey 
would  make  a  more  interesting  story." 

156 


MOTIVE  AND  VERISIMILITUDE 

summoned  to  feel  all  the  thrills  of  the  horrible  and  super- 
natural ;  but  a  loophole  is  always  left  open  for  some  de- 
ception either  of  the  reader  or  the  characters,  and  in  the 
last  chapter  everything  is  explained  by  human  means. 
That  is,  the  author  assures  us  everything  is  explained, 
and  balances  herself  lightly  in  giddy  tight-rope  fashion 
on  that  uncomfortable  "verge  of  probability."  But  those 
explanations,  even  to  the  most  trusting  reader,  must  kill 
the  story  as  with  a  club;  they  are  the  most  unbelievable 
of  all  its  horrors.  The  unexplainable  may  be  accepted 
temporarily,  while  one  seeks  its  meaning ;  but  when  Mrs. 
Radcliffe  offers  her  weak  solution,  the  intellect  is  directed 
specifically  upon  that,  and  reason  scornfully  rejects  the 
whole.  Take  for  instance  the  famous  picture  scene  hi 
"Udolpho."  Emily,  the  heroine,  raises  a  curtain  from 
before  what  she  supposes  to  be  a  picture,  and  immedi- 
ately faints  at  the  unnamed  horror  she  discovers.  In 
the  end  it  is  explained  that  she  had  seen  a  wax  work 
figure  and  mistaken  it  for  a  murdered  woman.  How 
a  dead  body  could  be  kept  there  without  decay,  or  why 
it  should  be  hidden  in  a  picture  frame  anyway,  sheltered 
from  discovery  only  by  a  curtain,  such  common-sense 
reflections  had  no  weight  with  silly  Emily — and  she  must 
have  been  short  sighted  too.  But  why  pursue  such  folly 
farther?  This  wild  straining  after  the  "utmost  verge  of 
probability"  reminds  the  student  irresistibly  of  the  laugh- 
able devices  of  old  Greek  romance,  the  comic  tragedies 
of  Achilles  Tatius. 

The  later  romances  of  fear  soon  broke  away  from 
these  childish  leading  strings.  They  deal  boldly  with 
the  supernatural,  or  at  least  the  superhuman,  as  in  God- 

157 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

win's  "St.  Leon,"  Lewis's  "Monk,"  Maturin's  "Mel- 
moth,"  Sue's  "Wandering  Jew."  Other  writers  studied 
to  approach  horror  through  the  hidden  possibilities  of 
science.  The  "first  American  novelist,"  Charles  Brock- 
den  Brown,1  in  his  "Wieland"  (1798)  has  his  unfor- 
tunate hero  pursued  by  unbodied  voices  which  drive  him 
at  length  to  madness  and  to  murder.  These  voices  are 
explained  as  the  work  of  a  malevolent  ventriloquist,  the 
art  of  the  voice  being  then  so  little  understood  that  the 
ventriloquial  power  is  employed  by  Brown  just  as  re- 
cent imaginative  novelists  have  written  of  hypnotism  and 
thought  transference. 

The  fiction  of  fantasy  thus  took  a  most  important 
step.  It  turned  to  play  upon  the  boundaries,  not  of  the 
impossible,  but  of  the  unknown.  It  assumed  toward  fear 
the  only  attitude  still  permitted  by  our  own  self-confident 
and  scientific  age.  So  also  with  Mrs.  Shelley  in  her 
"Frankenstein."  She  tells  of  a  scientist  who  discovers 
the  source  of  life  and  infuses  the  vital  spark  into  a 
monstrous  figure  of  his  own  creation.  The  monster  leads 
its  maker  to  a  tragic  destruction.  Modern  readers  may 
rank  this  at  once  among  the  impossible  tales ;  but  to  the 
fascinated  audience  who  gathered  round  Mrs.  Shelley  in 
Byron's  Swiss  chateau,  it  was  only  a  vision  of  the  reality 
to  which  science  might  some  day  lead. 

*I  accept  this  customary  form  of  reference  to  Brown,  because  he 
was  the  first  professional  writer  to  devote  himself,  while  dwelling 
in  America,  to  the  production  of  novels.  Single  works,  which  at 
least  approached  to  the  novel,  had  been  previously  written  here 
by  men  of  other  vocations,  notably  Judge  Brackenridge's  "Modern 
Chivalry,"  a  very  readable  tale  which  one  of  its  admirers  has 
called  "a  profound  philosophical  and  political  work,  under  the 
guise  of  pleasantry."  It  deserves  to  be  more  widely  known. 

158 


MOTIVE  AND  VERISIMILITUDE 

At  a  later  date  the  mysterious  adopts  a  less  positive 
tone ;  it  seeks  a  subtler  device.  Under  the  masterly  lead 
of  Hawthorne  and  of  Poe,  it  learns  to  deal  with  sugges- 
tion rather  than  assertion.  Readers  are  set  adrift  in  a 
vague  region  of  doubt  and  question,  amid  shadows  un- 
defined. Thus,  even  in  the  freest  type  of  romance,  the 
desire  for  truth  has  grown  increasingly  strong.  Only 
the  fashion  of  truth  changes. 

Following  yet  another  development  of  verisimilitude, 
one  sees  the  purpose-guided  novel  of  Richardson,  leading 
to  the  extravagantly  purpose-ridden  tales 
Verisimilitude       of    Voltaire>      In    «Candide"    Voltaire 
versus  .     . 

Purpose  meant  to  ridicule  optimism.    In  order  to 

deny  that  "everything  is  for  the  best" 
he  heaps  upon  his  characters  every  excess  of  human  mis- 
ery and  presents  them  as  being  equally  unhappy  in  peace 
and  in  the  midst  of  suffering,  yet  ever  persistently  cry- 
ing out  that  all  is  best.  The  thing  is  grotesque  in  its 
extravagance  of  savagery.  It  offers  one  case  at  least 
where  the  carpers  have  been  right :  a  dominant  purpose, 
a  cause  to  be  established,  has  wholly  destroyed  verisimili- 
tude. 

Looking  onward  through  the  eighteenth  century 
novels,  it  becomes  more  and  more  evident  that  the  clash 
between  verisimilitude  and  the  purpose  novel  is  genuine 
and  deepseated.  This  fact  is  impressed  by  each  new 
example.  Not  only  do  the  great  French  writers  give  evi- 
dence of  the  conflict ;  it  is  shown  also  in  Germany,  where 
Wieland's  tales,  in  this  respect  at  least,  are  like  Vol- 
taire's. They  seek  to  establish  some  deduction;  and  in 
the  effort  they  unhesitatingly  distort  life.  So  in  England 

159 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

Brooke's  "Fool  of  Quality"  preaches  the  virtue  of  "natu- 
ral" or  uncivilized  man — and  insults  civilization.  Graves' 
"Spiritual  Quixote"  attacks  Methodism — and  reduces 
religion  to  burlesque.  Thomas  Day's  "Sanford  and  Mer- 
ton,"  ancestor  to  all  the  "goody-goody"  books,  shows 
boys  how  they  should — but  fortunately  do  not — behave. 
Discontent,  socialism,  and  finally  anarchism,  run  wild  in 
the  novels  of  Holcroft,  Bage,  and  Godwin. 

Even  Godwin's  master  work  "Caleb  Williams,"  which 
is  one  of  the  great  forgotten  books  of  the  world,  is 
carried  by  the  author's  anarchism  to  that  "utmost  verge 
of  probability"  which  was  the  downfall  of  Miss  Reeve. 
"Caleb  Williams"  is  among  the  most  impressive  of  these 
revolutionary  writings  that  represent  society  as  warring 
upon  man.  Williams  suspects  the  murder  secret  of  a 
powerful  aristocrat,  and  is  therefore  hounded  through 
life  by  the  criminal.  The  hero  flees  and  hides  himself, 
but  is  tracked  down  and  persecuted  again  and  again.  All 
the  machinery  of  society  is  turned  against  him,  through 
scenes  of  enormous  power,  till  the  tragic  end.  Intense 
as  the  book  is  in  emotion,  exciting  in  story,  thrilling  in 
incident,  we  reach  its  close  in  doubt;  and  as  calmer 
judgment  reasserts  itself,  we  put  the  tale  coldly  aside. 
It  is  not  true;  it  did  not  happen;  human  beings  are  not 
such  as  that.  And  so  "Caleb  Williams"  is  relegated  to 
the  realms  of  fantasy  and  classed  even  by  careful  critics 
with  the  author's  supernatural  "St.  Leon"  and  Mrs. 
Shelley's  "Frankenstein."  Surely,  as  Professor  Stoddard 
phrases  it,  "The  great  god  Verity  has  his  revenges." 

In  all  this  there  is  no  proof  that  "purpose"  and  veri- 
similitude can  not  harmonize,  but  only  that,  in  the 

160 


MOTIVE  AND  VERISIMILITUDE 

examples  given,  they  did  not.  Purpose  seems  in  most 
cases  to  mean  passionate  devotion  to  a  cause,  hence 
lack  of  self-restraint,  exaggeration.  The  writing  of  his- 
tory has  passed  through  a  similar  stage.  There  was  a 
day  when  every  historian  wrote  to  demonstrate  a  thesis, 
and  saw  all  history  as  having  been  arranged  to  prove 
his  faith.  When  we  consider  that  modern  historical  writ- 
ing, honest,  impartial  and  philosophic  history,  is  usually 
dated  as  beginning  only  with  Hallam  and  Niebuhr  in 
1818,  we  may  pardon  flighty  fiction  if  she  was  even 
slower  than  her  steadfast  sister  art  to  assume  an  evenly 
balanced,  critic  poise. 

Yet  in  looking  to  the  "purpose  novels"  of  more  recent 
date,  one  finds  the  same  difficulty  still  thrust  upon  him. 
To  Americans  the  great  example  of  a  purpose  novel  will 
probably  for  all  time  remain  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin."  This 
was  avowedly  written  to  arouse  public  feeling  against 
slavery.  How  indignantly  have  Southerners  repudiated 
the  picture!  They  declare  it  wholly  false,  not  perhaps 
in  its  presentation  of  an  isolated  case,  but  in  its  underly- 
ing assumption  that  such  was  slavery.  Or  in  England, 
consider  Dickens  writing  of  the  boarding  schools  in 
"Nicholas  Nickleby."  He  asserts  in  his  preface  that  he 
gives  merely  "faint  and  feeble  pictures  of  an  existing 
reality,"  but  adverse  critics  have  called  the  book  "a 
study  in  untruth,"  and  declared  that  by  his  too  openly 
personified  caricature  of  Squeers  and  Fanny  he  "broke 
the  hearts  of  two  very  decent  people." 

Purpose  novels  then  must  stir  up  controversy,  that 
is  if  the  purpose  be  vigorous  enough  to  have  any  effect 
whatever.  And  the  purpose  novel  in  our  exacting  day 

161 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

must  restrain  its  exaggeration,  must  be  very  sure  indeed 
of  all  its  facts.  If  it  pose  as  serious,  it  will  be  taken 
very  seriously,  and  must  be  ready  to  stand  blows,  as  well 
as  give  them.  It  can  no  longer  pursue  its  impertinent, 
irresponsible  way,  flaunting  impossibilities  with  the  airy 
grace  and  mendacity  of  "Candide." 

In  brief  then,  the  novel  of  purpose  carries  within  it- 
self an  artistic  flaw,  which  is  very  apt  to  result  in  its 
destruction ;  but  it  also  bears  in  its  heart  a  possibility  of 
passion  and  energy  and  earnestness,  which  may  go  very 
far  toward  making  it  a  success.  It  is  not  a  form  to 
be  too  scornfully  dismissed. 

Another  branch  of  fiction  in  which  verisimilitude  had 
a  long  struggle  before  it  could  fully  assert  its  supremacy, 
was  the  historic  novel.  Over  the 
Verisimilitude  in  mediseval  past  the  andent  romance  of 
the  Histonc 
Novel  chivalry  long  asserted  its  grandiloquent 

control.  This  forgotten  past  was  de- 
picted as  a  fanciful  region  of  errant  knights  riding 
through  a  world  peopled  only  by  monsters  to  be  fought 
with,  distressed  damsels  to  be  succored,  and  some  insects 
known  as  common  people  to  be  killed  in  quantities  for 
exercise.  This  dream-world,  which  had  stirred  Walpole, 
exercised  its  influence  even  more  over  Scott.  His  historic 
novels  give  us  a  mediaeval  picture  fantastically  like  -and 
yet  unlike  the  reality.  He  did,  however,  grasp  the  central 
principle  on  which  the  historic  novel  depends.  The  main 
outlines  of  the  life  of  each  leader  of  an  age  are  well 
known ;  they  belong  to  history  itself,  and  any  tampering 
with  them  calls  down  upon  the  blunderer  the  "great  god 
Verity."  On  the  other  hand,  if  a  celebrated  figure  is 

162 


MOTIVE  AND  VERISIMILITUDE 

outlined  with  strict  historic  accuracy,  the  result  is  too 
stiff,  too  hampered,  to  be  a  novel.  Hence  such  figures  can 
only  be  introduced  in  minor  positions.  They  can  hardly 
be  made  effective  as  central  figures,  for  which  the  author 
needs  freer  play.1 

This  principle  was  realized  by  Scott,  and  hence  his 
historic  novels  remain  alive  as  stories  despite  much  falsity 
to  history.  It  was  not  realized  at  all  by  his  predecessors. 
"The  Recess"  of  Sophia  Lee  (1783),  which  has  been 
loosely  called  our  first  historic  novel,  introduces  Queen 
Elizabeth  and  all  her  court  as  central  characters  and  mis- 
represents them  with  constant  and  courageous  invention. 
So  too  with  the  once  well-known  tales  of  Jane  Porter, 
"Scottish  Chiefs"  and  "Thaddeus  of  Warsaw,"  over 
whose  pathetic  sentiment  our  ancestors  wept  much ;  these 
works  have  been  dismissed  to  the  oblivion  which  their 
ignorance  deserves. 

Scott  was  not  ignorant.  On  the  contrary  he  had  been 
an  eager  student  of  the  past,  and  had  some  standing  as 
an  antiquarian.  He  was  thus  in  a  position  to  do  fairly 
accurate  historic  work,  and  externally  he  was  not  unsuc- 
cessful. He  has  given  us  correct  details  of  costuming 
and  of  manners.  His  Louis  XI  is  a  wonderful  por- 
trait, some  of  his  other  figures  hardly  less  so.  But  the 
great  story-teller  felt  no  compulsion  to  get  to  the  heart 
of  that  ancient  world  and  understand  it  all.  He  made 
small  effort  to  recreate  it ;  indeed  he  wholly  miscreated 
it,  seeing  each  period  only  as  a  panorama,  an  effective 
background  for  a  tale. 

*A  fuller  discussion  of  this  point  will  be  found  in  the  chapter  on 
"background." 

163 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

Dumas'  abuse  of  history  is  even  more  irreverent.  He 
publicly  proclaimed  that  he  had  no  faith  in  history  as  re- 
corded by  historians;  and  he  took  a  harlequin's  delight 
in  letting  his  imagination  play  over  its  salient  points,  in- 
terpreting them  by  wildest  guesswork.  We  all  know  the 
result:  kings,  queens  and  cardinals  whirl  in  maddest 
dance  around  central  figures  like  D'Artagnan.  Fact  is 
tossed  to  the  wind,  and  history  rewritten,  to  make  each 
swashbuckler  a  hero. 

Thackeray's  "Henry  Esmond"  displays  a  far  more 
artistic  method.  Recorded  facts  are  never  contradicted. 
A  dubious  thing,  one  of  the  perplexing  problems  of 
history  is  taken  as  the  central  point.  Why  did  Queen 
Anne  of  England  not  follow  her  known  inclination,  and 
attempt  to  pass  the  inheritance  of  her  crown  to  her  Stuart 
nephew?  An  explanation  for  .this  is  carefully  built 
up,  taking  under  consideration  each  known  fact ;  and  this 
explanation  is  then  offered  in  the  garb  of  romance.  The 
historic  interest  is  roused;  it  almost  equals  that  of  the 
"story."  Moreover  the  picture  of  the  times  is  perfect  to 
the  last  detail. 

With  "Henry  Esmond"  then  the  historical  novel  may 
be  said  to  reach  its  maturity.  Verisimilitude  has  become 
its  guide.  Dickens  read  all  Carlyle's  library  on  France 
before  writing  his  "Tale  of  Two  Cities."  We  have 
modern  writers  even  more  conscientious  than  he. 
Stevenson,  Professor  Stoddard  tells  us,  chanced  to  men- 
tion in  one  of  his  stories  a  kind  of  bird  as  being  on  a 
Pacific  island  at  a  certain  season.  Later  the  romancer 
learned  that  those  birds  were  not  found  on  that  particular 
island  at  that  particular  season ;  and  he  insisted  on  hav- 

164 


MOTIVE  AND  VERISIMILITUDE 

ing  the  trivial  passage  changed  by  his  printer,  although 
considerable  expense  was  involved,  the  offending  book 
being  on  the  very  eve  of  publication.  Possibly  an  in- 
serted errata  slip  would  have  satisfied  the  artistic  con- 
science of  most  writers. 

One  lesser  but  very  practical  point  may  conclude  our 
glance  over  this  portion  of  our  subject.  The  novel  is  in 

a  sense  the  victim  of  its  lowly  origin. 

In  ancient  days  the  aim  of  fiction  was 

Attaining*  «t0  astonish>  so  Jt  told  falsehoods,  told 
Verisimilitude  them  flatly  and  cheerfully.  The  modern 
novel  has  discarded  falsehood.  It  aims 
to  convince.  Hence  it  is  even  more  true  than  truth; 
it  avoids  and  condemns  the  occasional  extravagances  of 
the  actual.  Yet  it  is  still  rejected  as  untrue.  Serious- 
minded  persons  regard  its  reading  as  a  waste  of  time. 

Thus  the  novel  is  still  suffering  for  the  sins  of  its 
fathers.  To  accuse  the  novel  form  in  general  of  false- 
hood is  assuming  a  mistaken  premise.  The  novelist  does 
not  assert  that  his  characters  exist  in  life,  but  only  that 
they  act  as  human  beings  would  under  such  circum- 
stances as  he  imagines.  This  convention  being  perfectly 
understood  by  even  the  youngest  reader,  the  work  be- 
comes a  philosophical  treatise  on  human  life,  which  the 
writer  may  approach  seriously,  romantically,  or  in 
burlesque.  His  fidelity  is  not  pledged  to  actual  truth  of 
external  incident,  but  to  the  internal  harmony  of  his 
thoughts  with  truth. 

The  root  value  of  verisimilitude  thus  lies  in  its  high 
moral  influence,  but  the  universal  demand  for  it  springs 
chiefly  from  its  artistic  worth.  Its  surface  need  for 

165 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

even  the  most  irreverent  writer  comes  from  its  con- 
vincingness. It  carries  the  reader  away  and  makes  him 
accept,  and  for  an  instant  live  wholly  in,  the  author's 
f  world.  Approached  from  this  cheaply  practical  side  the 
fact  becomes  evident,  that  what  makes  a  story  convinc- 
ing is  not  at  all  the  physical  actuality  of  the  incidents  in- 
troduced ;  it  is  the  general  effect  of  truth,  this  underlying 
harmony  of  thought  with  truth,  the  ability  to  convey 
to  other  minds  the  appearance  and  impression  of 
reality.  ^ 

From  many  a  youthful  author  have  I  received 
almost  hysterical  insistence  that  his  tale  must  be  believed, 
because  it  really  happened.  The  plea,  unfortunately, 
touches  only  the  beginning  of  the  matter.  A  real  scene 
may  have  been  so  imperfectly  viewed  by  the  spectator, 
so  wholly  misunderstood,  that  his  mental  picture  of  it 
is  quite  false.  Or  even  where  the  mental  picture  is  cor- 
rect, the  inadequacy  of  its  description  on  paper  may 
result  in  conveying  a  false  picture  to  the  reader.  There 
are  thus  three  stages  to  a  story's  truth;  and  the  novice, 
nay  even  the  master,  may  fail  at  any  one  of  them. 
There  must  be  eternal  verity  in  the  idea  itself ;  there  must 
be  the  artist's  verity  of  sight  in  studying  and  understand- 
ing it;  and  then  must  come  the  craftsman's  technique 
to  give  verity  of  reproduction  to  the  reader.  Only  from 
the  combination  of  all  three  verities  springs  true  veri- 
similitude. 


* 


166 


CHAPTER  IV 
CHARACTER 

Early  Drift  If  in  the  progress  of  early  fiction  there 

is  one  development  more  striking  than 
the  slow  advance  of  the  ages  toward 
unity  of  plot,  it  is  the  equally  slow  but  persistent  growth 
of  character  study.  This  art  was,  as  we  have  seen,  wholly 
unconceived  among  ancient  tale-tellers.  Interest  in  hu- 
manity, in  the  individual  as  differentiated  from  his  fel- 
lows, arose  with  the  Renaissance.  In  the  short  stories 
such  as  Boccaccio's  and  in  the  scenes  of  the  picaresque 
romances,  a  thousand  figures  were  presented  to  the  reader, 
types  viewed  externally  and  with  the  emphasis  laid  upon 
their  external  difference,  one  from  another.  In  a  later 
stage  of  development  writers  have  sought  to  look  beneath 
the  surface,  to  depict,  not  their  characters'  individual 
difference,  but  the  common  laws  which  underlie  this  and 
create  it.  Thus  we  come  back  in  another  guise  to  a  point 
already  raised :  the  character  student  of  to-day  seeks  for 
that  deep-rooted  inevitable  which  molds  the  outward  and 
accidental. 

If  one  accepts  the  dictum  of  Mr.  Howells  and  the  many 

able  exponents  of  similar  views  that  character  depiction 

is  the  central  element  and  chief  value 

of  the  novel,  then  the  career  of  the  latter 

begins  with  "Don  Quixote."    It  is  now  a  quarter  century 

since  James   Russell  Lowell   wrote,   "Cervantes   is  the 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

father  of  the  modern  novel  in  so  far  as  it  has  become 
a  study  and  delineation  of  character,  instead  of  being  a 
narrative  seeking  to  interest  by  situation  and  incident." 

That  the  influence  of  "Don  Quixote"  upon  the  novel 
of  the  eighteenth  century  was  deep  and  lasting  there  can 
be  no  question.  The  Spanish  masterpiece  was  trans- 
lated into  English  as  early  as  1612.  It  was  one  of  the 
household  books  of  the  Puritan  age,  burlesqued  by  Beau- 
mont and  Fletcher  in  "The  Knight  of  the  Burning 
Pestle"  and  by  Butler  in  "Hudibras."  Even  more  marked 
was  its  influence  over  the  succeeding  century.  One  of 
Fielding's  early  efforts  was  a  poor,  rough-finished  play 
on  "Don  Quixote  in  England."  His  "Joseph  Andrews" 
he  himself  declares  to  be  founded  on  the  work  of  Cer- 
vantes. Smollett  wrote  a  direct  imitation  of  "Don 
Quixote"  in  "The  Adventures  of  Sir  Launcelot  Greaves." 
Mrs.  Lennox  made  a  novel  of  "The  Female  Quixote," 
Richard  Graves  of  "The  Spiritual  Quixote,"  Wieland's 
"Don  Sylvio  of  Rosalba"  was  a  German  echo.  The 
masterpiece  of  Cervantes  was  world-known. 

In  most  of  these  copies,  however,  it  is  not  the  character 

depiction  of  Cervantes  that   is   imitated,   but  only  the 

.     f  central  idea,  the  plot:  a  fanatic  rushes 

Picture!  of  forth  to  right  the  world>  flies  in  the  face 

Types  °f  established  laws,  and  is  defeated  and 

laughed  at  for  his  pains.  Fielding 
caught  something  of  the  deeper  teaching  of  the  master. 
Parson  Adams,  the  real  hero  of  "Joseph  Andrews,"  i) 
the  English  Quixote;  and  in  following  the  sympathetic 
touches  by  which  Fielding  brought  out  this  figure,  one 
feels  it  not  wholly  unworthy  of  its  great  original.  Yet 

168 


CHARACTER 

even  Parson  Adams  fails  to  grow  and  change  with  his 
story.  He  is  a  finished  picture,  but  only  a  picture,  a 
figure  fixed  and  immovable.  Life  leaves  him  where  it 
found  him.  There  is  not  one  of  his  experiences  that 
he  would  not  have  encountered  again  another  time  in  the 
same  spirit  and  with  similar  results.  He  is  touched  by 
stress  and  storm  only  as  are  the  immovable  mountains, 
slowly  sinking  into  dust,  but  unchanging  from  within. 

A  similar  readiness  to  deal  with  fixed  types  rather 
than  changeable  human  beings — that  is,  to  use  the  meth- 
ods of  the  comedy  drama  of  the  time— is  visible  in  Field- 
ing's later  work.  He  even  employs  the  crude  comedy 
device  of  symbolic  names.  .  Squire  Allworthy  is  pre- 
vented by  his  cognomen  itself  from  being  sinfully  human. 
Whether  his  fortune  be  good  or  ill,  though  he  be  tried 
by  all  the  miseries  of  Job,  he  must  remain  "all  worthy." 
His  merit  is  limited  only  by  the  capacity  of  his  creator 
to  conceive  of  worth.  So,  too,  the  pedagogues,  Square 
and  Thwackum,  must  stand  throughout  for  mathematical 
stiffness  and  for  savage  brutality — else  they  will  be  false 
to  their  names. 

In  Jones  himself  and  in  Captain  Booth  of  "Amelia," 
Fielding  has  given  us  studied  of  a  far  higher  order.  Tom  ) 

Jones  learns  from  experience;  he  de- 
The  Three  velops,  as  all  men  develop.  The  Jones 

PreTentin  wh°  UpHftS  the  villain  BHfil  at  the  d°Se 

Character*  *s  an  °^er»  kindlier,  nobler  man  than  the 

Jones  who  pounded  this  same  villain 
Blifil  in  the  early  chapters.  Whether  the  related  experi- 
ences of  Jones  had  been  such  as  would  tend  to  develop 
him  along  the  lines  of  growth  he  follows  is  a  question  that 

169 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

brings  us  into  a  more  modern  psychology  than  agitated 
the  eighteenth  century.  If  you  were  good,  life  made  you 
better;  if  you  were  bad,  it  reformed  you — unless  you 
were  too  bad,  then  it  hanged  you.  Such  was  the  com- 
fortable doctrine  of  the  sermonizing  English  novel  from 
Defoe  down  to  a  much  later  date  than  Fielding.  Early 
fiction,  as  we  have  already  seen,  had  the  obsession  of  its 
moral  strong  upon  it. 

Fielding,  be  it  remembered,  set  out  with  the  avowed 
purpose  to  portray_life_|ust_as  it  existed.  Hence  while 
in  his  minor  figures  he  may  occasionally  permit  himself 
burlesque  and  whim,  in  his  central  characters,  Jones  and 
Sophia,  Booth  and,  though  less  clearly,  Amelia,  he  means 
to  show  us  the  ordinary  man  and  woman  of  the  day, 
unusual  neither  in  their  thoughts  nor  their  deeds. 

The  aim  of  Richardson  was  neither  so  broad  as  that 
of  his  rival,  nor  so  direct.  He  at  first  meant  only  to  show 
woman  as  she  should  be,  nor  did  his  purpose  ever  reach 
very  far  beyond  this.  Hence  his  heroines  are  ideal,  not 
real.  Perhaps  their  very  unreality  explains  why  the 
ladies  of  the  day  so  enthusiastically  declared  them  accurate. 
The  fair  readers  saw  themselves  in  Pamela  and  Clarissa, 
but  themselves  in  their  better  moments,  freed  from  pettier 
thoughts,  soaring  above  earth,  and  shining  as  angels 
without  substance  or  material  body. 

Possibly  most  of  us  in  similar  situation  would  blush- 
ingly  admit  the  likeness  of  a  portrait  so  delicately  ethere- 
alized.  We  might  even  be  exalted  into  believing  it  true. 
Certainly  the  ladies  were  not  harmed  by  it;  on  the  con- 
trary, they  strove  to  be  what  Richardson  conceived  them. 
It  is  a  doctrine  not  without  strong  advocacy  even  to-day, 

170 


^CHARACTER 

that  fiction  should  deal  with  the  "higher  truth,"  should 
endeavor  to  raise  the  world  by  depicting  the  ideal  rather 
than  the  actual. 

Thus  there  exist,  running  side  by  side  through  the 
entire  history  of  the  novel,  three  contrasted  ways  of  pre- 
senting character.  It  is  idealized,  as  in  Clarissa  and  All- 
worthy;  it  is  presented  naturally,  as  in  Fielding's  chief 
figures;  or  it  is  caricatured,  made  whimsically  false,  as 
in  the  disputes  of  Square  and  Thwackum. 

Smollett  often  uses  this  burlesque  method  with  his 
lesser  figures.  His  leading  characters,  like  Fielding's, 
are  true ;  or  as  true  as  the  author's  insight  permitted  him 
to  see  them.  He  himself  was  coarse  and  hard;  so  his 
.Roderick  and  his  Peregrine  unconsciously  become  the 
same.  They  dwell  in  a  bleak  world,  unwarmed  by  the 
•wisdom,  the  tenderness,  the  universal  love,  of  the  greater 
portrait  painter. 

In  the  writings  of  Sterne  we  find  the  method  of  cari- 
cature pressed  to  its  utmost  limits,  yet  conceived  in  its  s/ 
finest  spirit.  His  untruths  are  true;  for  always  within 
the  voluminous  folds  of  the  jester's  cloak  we  catch  the 
outlines  of  a  wholly  human  form.  Here  is  no  gross, 
bloated,  impossible  and  disgusting  figure,  such  as  too 
often  disgraces  the  pages  of  modern  pictorial  caricature ; 
here  is  a  living  being  made  only  more  captivating,  more 
deliciously  enjoyable  by  its  mocking,  mischievous  dis- 
guise. 

The  lesser  writers  of  that  early  day  followed  mainly 
the  methods  of  Fielding.  They  attempted  straight- 
forward reproductions  of  the  outer  life  of  the  times, 
actuality.  "Henry,"  the  best  novel  of  Richard  Cumber- 

171 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  TE  NOVEL 

land,  is  a  professed  copy  of  "Tom  Jones";  and  a  com- 
parison of  the  two  may  emphasize  the  greatness  of  Field- 
ing's success  in  depicting  real  life.  Cum- 
berland was  a  poet  and  a  noted  writer  of 
comedies;  he  had  a  critic's  eye  for  the 
style  of  his  novelistic  predecessors,  and  discussed  their 
methods  with  broad  intelligence.  Yet  what  a  prig  is 
this  hero  of  his !  Henry  is  a  foundling,  of  course,  vali- 
ant and  beautiful  and  modest  and  good — and  most 
amazingly  given  to  moralizing.  In  the  most  exciting 
situations  he  will  start  off  a  page-long  oracular  de- 
fense of  his  severely  tried  morality.  He  is  wooed  by 
women  of  every  description,  in  scenes  approaching  the 
absurd.  Fortune  after  fortune  is  left  him  by  admirers, 
and  he  declines  them  regularly  with  great  magnanimity. 
The  book  presents  an  observer's  knowledge  of  life,  but' 
never  a  master's.  The  characters  are  repeatedly  found  in 
false  and  artificial  positions  "for  the  sake  of  the  story." 

In  other  words,  among  lesser  writers  the  true  divina- 
tion of  character  has  proved  itself  no  easy  task.  They 
are  hampered,  as  Smollett  was,  by  imperfectness  of  in- 
sight and  understanding,  by  the  error  of  little  minds, 
which  have  always  interpreted  "knowledge  of  the  world" 
and  "truth  to  life"  as  synonymous  with  coarseness  and 
vulgar  cynicism.  Such  is  the  narrow  aspect  under  which 
Coventry's  "History  of  Pompey  the  Little"  or  Johnstone's 
"Chrysal  or  the  Adventures  of  a  Guinea"  draws  its  por- 
trait gallery  of  characters.  These  two  may  be  taken  as- 
typical  of  a  large  class  of  early  works  which  follow  some 
article  of  property,  as  a  lap-dog  or  a  guinea,  through  its 
possession  by  a  series  of  owners,  whose  lives  are  thus 

172 


CHARACTER 

viewed  from  an  outside  yet  peculiarly  intimate  stand- 
point. "Pompey"  is  a  lewd  and  thoroughly  disgusting 
book;  yet  its  characters  are  drawn  from  ladies  of  the 
time,  and  Lady  Montagu  has  left  on  record  that  she  pre- 
ferred this  work  to  Smollett's  "Peregrine  Pickle."  Hence 
its  coarseness  was  not  wholly  offensive  to  the  age;  its 
pictures  can  not  be  wholly  false.  Realism  was  early 
tempted  into  a  most  unpleasant  slough. 

From  such  disagreeable  reading  one  turns  with  relief 

to  note  the  different  attitude  assumed  by  fiction  in  pursuit 

of  the  ideal.    Richardson's  influence  was 

far  stronger  upon  women  than  upon 
Idealism  ° 

men.  Goldsmith  s  characters  are  ideal- 
ized ;  so  are  those  of  Mackenzie ;  but  in  the  main  it  was 
the  rapidly  increasing  group  of  "lady  novelists"  who 
followed  Richardson's  lead.  His  sway  extended  over 
even  such  a  hardened  hack  writer  as  Mrs.  Heywood.  She 
had  been  one  of  the  principal  scribblers  of  fiction  before 
1740,  purveyors  of  tales  of  physical  indecency.  In  1751 
she  published  "The  History  of  Miss  Betsey  Thought- 
less," the  Moral  Purpose  of  which  is  writ  as  large  as 
Richardson's,  while  its  heroine  is  not  wholly  unworthy 
of  him.  So,  too,  we  may  trace  the  womanly  devotion 
to  ideal  figures  through  the  work  of  Sarah  Fielding, 
sister  to  the  great  realist,  but  spiritually  akin  rather  to 
his  rival.  The  line  passes  on  through  Charlotte  Lennox 
and  a  dozen  lesser  figures,  until  even  as  late  as  1810  ap- 
peared Mrs.  Brunton's  "Self-Control,"  a  deliberate  imi- 
tation of  "Clarissa." 

Unfortunately  this  pursuit  of  perfection  soon  lost  all 
connection    whatsoever   with    reality.      The    persecuted 

173 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

heroine  could  do  no  wrong,  except  it  were  that  of  trust- 
ing blindly.  The  amorous  villain  became  a  mere  per- 
sonification of  evil;  and  the  sighing  hero,  the  "man  of 
sentiment,"  was  as  unhuman  as  his  victims.  This  is  a 
bit  unjust  if  applied  specifically  to  Mrs.  Brunton,  whose 
work  ranks  not  entirely  below  that  of  the  novelists  of 
wider  fame.  In  "Self-Control"  she  attacks  sentimentality 
with  vigor  and  some  wit.  Yet  her  own  persecuted  orphan 
heroine  has  wondrous  beauty  and  auburn  hair  and  is 
named  Laura  Montreville.  The  handsome,  polished 
villain  who  abducts  her,  and  whom  her  pathetic  virtue 
finally  drives  to  despair  and  suicide,  is  called  Villiers 
Hargrave.  The  priggish  hero  is  Montague  DeCourcy, 
while  the  common  people  of  the  book  are  compelled  to 
the  disgrace  of  common  names,  and  are  Dawkins  and 
Wilkins  and  Stubbs. 

Of  course  in  the  confessedly  romantic  novels,  such  as 
Mrs.  Radcliffe's,  this  departure  from  reality,  this  spurn- 
ing of  common  life  and  common  character,  is  carried  to 
even  greater  excess.  Under  such  leadership  the  novel 
seemed  rapidly  returning  to  all  the  extravagances  of  the 
chivalric  romance,  resuming  the  form  from  which  it  had 
differentiated  centuries  before. 

Fortunately  there  was  a  stronger,  saner  influence  sum- 
moning the  novel  back  from  these  two  extremes  of  gush 
The  Eg  and  of  vulgarity,  and  guiding  it  into  the 

from  These  Pat^  °*  £enume  character  study.  The 
Extremes  work  of  Miss  Burney  has  been  often 

quoted  as  leading  this  reform;  but  we 
ought  also  to  note  the  even  earlier  influence  of  the  educa- 
tional novel.  This  began  with  Rousseau.  His  theories  of 

174 


CHARACTER 

education,  of  the  evil  influence  of  our  civilization  upon  the 
expanding  mind  of  youth,  pervade  all  his  works.  "Emile," 
as  a  novel  written  specially  to  emphasize  this,  naturally 
dwells  upon  the  development  of  its  central  figure.  Emile 
himself  may  on  close  examination  seem  quite  as  imag- 
inary and  impossible  a  figure  as  any  Radcliffe  heroine; 
but  he  has  at  least  the  air  of  truth.  He  is  approached 
seriously,  as  the  ordinary,  not  the  extraordinary,  mortal. 
So,  too,  the  "Paul  and  Virginia"  of  St.  Pierre,  romantic 
in  its  story,  deeply  poetic  in  its  style,  has  yet  this  germ  of 
character  study,  development  through  education. 

The  influence  of  these  works,  especially  of  "Emile," 
was  very  wide ;  and  the  educational  novel  had  for  a  time 
a  vogue  of  its  own.  In  England,  Mrs.  Inchbald,  the 
noted  actress,  wrote  "A  Simple  Story"  upon  this  theme, 
and  then  "Nature  and  Art."  Brooke's  "Fool  of  Quality" 
has  the  same  central  idea.  Miss  Edgeworth  in  her  first 
great  novel,  "Belinda,"  supplies  one  character,  Virginia, 
as  an  intentional  example  of  the  application  of  Rousseau's 
educational  theories. 

Neither  must  one  forget  in  this  connection  the  most 
remarkable  piece  of  character  drawing  that  appeared  in 
the  half  century  that  separates  the  first  great  novelists 
from  Jane  Austen.  In  1786  John  Moore  published  his 
"Zeluco."  As  a  novel  this  is  poor,  being  wandering  and 
discursive.  Its  own  sub-title  describes  it  faithfully, 
"Various  Views  of  Human  Nature,  taken  from  Life  and 
Manners,  Foreign  and  Domestic."  But  it  is  unique  in 
that  it  takes  the  character  of  a  bad  man,  a  figure  unre- 
lieved by  power  or  by  romance,  and  frankly  and  seriously 
traces  his  career  from  birth  to  death.  Moore  mocks  at 

175 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

the  saints  and  fiends  he  finds  in  other  novels,  and  claims 
to  describe  human  nature  as  it  really  is.1  Zeluco,  badly 
educated  in  the  beginning,  sinks  from  evil  to  evil,  suffer- 
ing to  suffering.  Vice  is  depicted  as  its  own  punishment, 
and  the  moral  enforced  is  the  comment  of  a  character  in 
the  tale,  "Never  be  such  a  fool  as  to  be  a  knave." 

Such  works  as  these  kept  alive  a  genuine  feeling  for 
character.  In  Mrs.  Inchbald's  work  this  is  particularly 
notable.  Her  "Simple  Story,"  though  not  published  until 
1791,  when  she  had  become  noted  as  an  actress,  was 
written  about  1778,  that  is  before  the  influence  of  Miss 
Burney  had  become  widely  established.  Mrs.  Inchbald 
started  her  tale  apparently  in  holiday  mood,  sketched  in 
her  puppets  to  uphold  her  theories  and  then  stared  at 
them  in  amazement,  discovering  they  were  alive.  Her 
running  commentary  on  them  is  always  one  of  surprise. 
She  sees  they  are  not  acting  according  to  rule;  she 
apologizes  for  them ;  she  even  scolds  them.  But  they  have 
grown  to  her  too  real  to  be  wholly  under  subjection; 
they  are  always  breaking  loose.  The  book  offers  a  most 
interesting  study  of  an  unconscious  power,  of  a  half- 
formed  art. 

Deliberately  conscious  and  far  superior  to  this  crude 
work  were  the  first  two  novels  of  Miss  Burney.  She  has 
been  called  the  creator  of  the  novel  of  manners ;  that  is, 

'Says  Moore,  "The  race  of  those  perfect  beings  incapable  of 
weakness,  and  invulnerable  to  vice,  who  are  ever  armed  at  all 
points,  and  cased  in  virtues  as  the  knights  of  chivalry  were  in 

ail,  has  intirely  failed  ,  .  .  till  these  opposite  extremes,  men 
mtirely  good  or  completely  wicked,  appear  again,  we  must  be  con- 
itcd  with  that  mediocrity  of  character  which  prevails,  and 
araw  mankind  as  we  find  them,  the  best  subject  to  weak- 
nesses, the  worst  imbued  with  some  good  quality." 

176 


CHARACTER 

of  character  viewed  as  to  its  externals  rather  than  its  soul, 
and  of  "society,"  dealing  only  with  the  people  of  the 
author's  own  circle  in  life.    Yet  her  work 
Character  js  not  wnoiiy  external.  There  is  a  soul  in 

S7  AutoW  J"  Evelina>  though  perhaps  not  a  very  deeply 
graphic  Novel  realized  one;  and  also  in  some  of  the 
minor  characters.  Thus,  for  instance, 
the  Smiths  and  the  Brangtons  are  not  presented  simply  as 
vulgar  persons.  The  reader  is  invited  to  look  into  their 
hearts ;  he  is  shown  what  lies  there  to  make  them  vulgar. 

In  this  respect  Miss  Burney  is  superior  to  her  greater 
successor,  Miss  Edgeworth,  whose  minor  figures,  and 
generally  her  major  ones  as  well,  are  frankly,  coldly, 
types.  Their  creator  thus  stands  rather  aside  from  the 
development  of  the  novel  under  the  women  who  dom- 
inated it  from  Miss  Burney  down  to  Scott.  Its  main 
development  was  in  depth  of  character  presentation. 

"  'Fool,'  said  my  Muse  to  me,  'look  in  thy  heart  and  write !' " 
So  sang  Sidney,  and  the  women  of  this  period  under- 
stood his  meaning.     Their  novels  are  largely  autobio- 
graphic, but  in  a  different  sense  thanj  Smollett's.     He  I 
retailed  what  he  had  seen,  and  perchance  misread;  they 
what  they  had  felt,  and  intuitively  understood. 

It  has  become  almost  a  truism,  that  every  human  being 
has  within  himself  the  material  for  one  good  novel.  This 
lies  not  in  the  events  of  his  life,  which  may  have  been 
trivial,  but  in  his  thoughts  and  feelings,  which  make  him 
individual.  These  may  be  more  or  less  frankly  revealed, 
they  may  be  touched  by  the  brush  of  fancy;  but  if  the 
author  does  not  pervert  their  essence,  he  has  real  human 
nature  to  disclose,  real,  new  truth  to  tell.  Of  course  if 

177 


ing 
his 
sen 

lim 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

this  autobiographic  study  is  extended  through  more  than 
a  single  tale  or  character,  it  grows  thin,  the  stream  dries 
up,  each  figure  tends  to  become  a  mere  echo  of  the  first. 
Hence  we  have,  and  will  always  have,  the  novelist  of  a 
single  book,  like  Du  Maurier  or,  in  a  subtler  sense,  like 
Goldsmith.  In  France  Madame  Lafayette  had  been  her 
own  Princess  of  Cleves.  Madame  de  Stae'l  gave  life  and 
truth  to  her  own  personification  in  "Delphine"  and 
"Corinne."  So  Mrs.  Inchbald's  characters  defied  her  pen, 
because  they  were  herself  and  her  intimate  friends,  not 
visionary  figures  at  all.  Miss  Burney  managed  to  extend 
her  bright  personality  through  two  books,  two  heroines, 
Evelina  and  Cecilia.  Her  later  novels  were  failures. 

It  is  for  this  reason  that  Miss  Edgeworth  is  commonly 
regarded  as  a  greater  novelist.  Though  there  is  much 
of  herself  scattered  through  all  her  books,  yet  these  are 
not  only  numerous,  but  varied.  She  does  not  merely 
record,  she  creates. 

With  this  subject  of  self-revelation  in  view,  it  is  inter- 
esting to  turn  to  Jane  Austen  and  inquire  just  how  much 
of  herself  this  remarkable  artist  has 
j^  Qf  written  into  her  heroines.  She  confined 

Jane  Austen  ^er  WOI"k  with  Quaker-like  severity  to  the 
world  she  knew,  refusing  every  induce- 
ment to  step  beyond  it.  Hence  she  never  attempted  to 
portray  any  tragic  deeps,  any  convulsive  upheavals  of 
emotion.  Hers  is  a  character  study,  quiet,  humorous, 
practical.  The  figures  passing  before  her  in  life  she 
depicts  with  accuracy  and  understanding.  Her  male  per- 
sonages share  with  some  of  those  of  George  Eliot  the 
honor  of  being  the  only  woman-drawn  portraits  of  man 

178 


CHARACTER 

that  man  accepts.  Yet  each  of  her  six  novels  centres 
around  a  heroine,  who  is  the  most  fully  developed  char- 
acter of  the  tale.  Which  of  these  six  is  Miss  Austen 
herself?  Are  they  all  she,  or  none  of  them? 

The  authoress  has  been  frequently  associated  with  her 
Elizabeth  Bennet  in  "Pride  and  Prejudice,"  and  it  is 
notable  that  Elizabeth  is  the  one  of  the  six  heroines  who 
most  largely  and  naturally  "develops"  through  the  ex- 
periences of  the  story.  Young  authors,  however,  usually 
insert  most  autobiographical  detail  into  their  earliest 
work,  and  "Pride  and  Prejudice"  was  not  Miss  Austen's 
maiden  effort.  In  that  earlier  manuscript  that  she  re- 
wrote as  "Sense  and  Sensibility,"  the  two  sisters  Eleanor 
and  Marianne  bear,  despite  their  stiffness,  a  general  like- 
ness to  Elizabeth  and  Jane  Bennet.  Perhaps  both  novels 
are  self-studies,  only  the  later  one  is  firmer,  keener,  and 
lightened  by  some  fanciful  touches.  The  personal  de- 
scriptions of  Miss  Austen  with  which  her  contemporaries 
have  supplied  us  represent  her  without  the  sprightliness 
of  Elizabeth,  though  escaping  the  heaviness  of  the  earlier 
Eleanor.  At  any  rate,  there  can  be  no  questioning  the 
power  and  truth  and  delicacy  of  each  picture  in  this  re- 
markable gallery  of  heroines.  Later  art  could  make  no 
improvement  on  their  perfection. 

There  were,  however,  fields  Miss  Austen  did  not  touch, 

regions  still  open  for  the  advance  of  character  depiction. 

The   novelist   could  analyze  instead   of 

Advance  in  merely   portraying;   and   he   could   find 

Character  figures    far   more    interesting   than   her 

Development  &  .      ,  .    1t  , 

well-trained     demoiselles,     souls     made 

mightier  by  passion,  more  dignified  by  breadth  of  living. 

179 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

Moreover,  there  was  still  the  problem  of  character  de- 
velopment not  clearly  grasped  and  brought  within  the 
control  of  the  novel's  technique.1  Through  the  prefaces, 
criticisms  and  appreciations  of  the  eighteenth  century- 
there  runs  much  talk  of  character,  of  its  creation  and 
"conservation,"  its  "sustainment."  But  these  terms  seem 
only  to  mean  that  the  poor  character  shall  be  compelled 
never  to  disobey  its  laws  as  first  announced,  never  to 
step  down  from  its  frame. 

It  is  this  very  rigidity  that  makes  types  instead  of 
human  beings,  figures  built  up  from  without,  not  realized 
from  within.  As  Mr.  Howells  phrases  it,  "When  the 
desire  for  character  arose,  the  novelists  loaded  their  types 
with  attributes;  but  still  there  was  no  character,  which 
is  rooted  in  personality."  Again  in  speaking  of  the  fig- 
ures of  a  writer  of  the  early  nineteenth  century,  he  says, 
"They  are  as  infallibly  themselves  as  so  many  lunatics." 
Our  changes,  our  inconsistencies,  he  points  out,  are  what 
make  us  human. 

Perhaps  one  had  best  leave  Mr.  Howells  to  say  for  him- 
self just  where  he  would  draw  the  line  upon  this  pres- 
entation of  lunatics  in  novels,  and  consider  "personality" 
as  beginning.  Most  of  us  would  probably  regard  the  full 
power  of  character  creation  and  realization  as  arising  with 
Balzac  in  France,  with  Hawthorne  in  America;  and  in 
England,  passing  over  the  exceptional  case  of  Miss 

'I  dp  not  wish  to  be  misunderstood  as  finding  a  lack  of  develop- 
ment in  Miss  Austen's  heroines.  Some  change  in  them  is  shown, 
but  as  a  rule  the  experiences  through  which  they  pass  are  not  of  a 
nature  to  cause  any  notable  growth.  Even  Emma,  in  the  story 
of  that  name,  does  no  more  than  resolve  to  control  certain  of  her 
failings,  after  she  has  seen  the  pain  that  she  has  caused  by  them. 
There  is  no  deep  alteration  within  her. 

180 


CHARACTER 

Austen  and  possibly  of  Fielding,  we  would  begin  it  as 
late  as  Thackeray.1  On  the  other  hand  there  may  be 
some  who  will  call  even  Thackeray's  figures  "types  loaded 
with  attributes"  and  carry  us  down  to  George  Eliot  for 
genuine  character  analysis.  Then  steps  in  so  notable  a 
critic  as  Mr.  Brownell  to  tell  us  that  even  George  Eliot's 
characters  are  only  half  realized,  are  intellectually  but 
not  emotionally  alive.  This  suggests  obviously  the  dictum 
that  emotion  is  the  unmeasurable  factor  which,  disturbing 
intellectual  character,  causes  human  "inconsistency."  But 
the  whole  question  of  emotion  may  wait  for  its  separate 
chapter,  and  escape  discussion  here. 

Returning  to  our  historical  survey,  we  find  that  Scott 

made  no  advance  in  the  treatment  of  character.    He  could 

admire,  with  his  broad  sight  he  did  ad- 

of^the^  mire'  the  work  of  Miss  Austen  and  Miss 

Idealists  Edgeworth.     He  spoke  of  the  former's 

"exquisite  touch,  which  renders  ordinary, 
commonplace  things  and  characters  interesting  from  the 
truth  of  the  description  and  the  sentiment";  and  of  the 
latter's  "wonderful  power  of  vivifying  all  her  persons"; 
but  for  himself  he  took  the  easiest  road. 

To  his  genius,  story  telling  was  far  easier  than  char-  J 
acter  discrimination.  So  his  heroes,  Quentin  Durward, 
and  Ivanhoe,  and  the  Knight  of  the  Leopards,  are  cut 
from  a  single  cloth.  As  to  his  heroines,  it  has  become 
one  of  the  commonplaces  of  criticism  to  declare  that  they 
are  all  exactly  alike,  empty  pictures  of  a  gallant  gentle- 
man's ideal.  Exception  to  this  must  be  taken  in  favor  of 

1Perhaps  another  exception  should  be  made  in  favor  of  some  of 
Gait's  Scottish  characters;  consider,  for  instance,  his  charming, 
whimsical  Provost. 

181 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

some  of  his  Scottish  maidens.  I  know  no  truer,  no  more 
wholly  realized  (not  analyzed),  figures  than  Effie  and 
Jeanie  Deans.  In  them  Scott  was  dealing  with  folk  such 
as  he  had  known  all  his  life,  as  to  whose  feelings  he 
could  not  go  astray.  Always  in  speaking  of  Scott  we 
are  forced  back  upon  the  same  regret :  if  only  he  had  al- 
lowed himself  for  each  book  a  little  more  time,  a  little 
more  of  thought,  a  little  more  of  effort,  what  a  mighty 
master  he  would  have  been. 

Possibly  our  own  Cooper  did  quite  as  much  as  Scott 
in  keeping  the  eyes  of  novel  readers  fixed  upon  ideal  fig- 
ures; and  it  was  into  a  world  dominated  by  them  that 
Hugo  at  twenty-three,  Disraeli  at  twenty-two,  Bulwer  at 
twenty- four,  Balzac  at  thirty,  each  projected  a  first  novel 
with  characters  tinged  by  the  same  exaggeration  and  un- 
reality. Three  of  these  youthful  writers  quickly  found 
firmer  footing,  and  so  in  time  did  even  Hugo,  the  great- 
est romanticist  of  all.1 

The  two  decades  between  1830  and  1850  witnessed  that 
brilliant  struggle  between  the  two  divergent  schools. 
They  saw  the  final  opulent  flowering  of  the  old  romance ; 
and  they  watched  the  ever-increasing  devotion  to  actuality 
push  romance  from  its  throne.  The  spirit  of  the  ages 
seemed  reversed ;  for  old  men  clung  to  the  ideal  pictures 

'Disraeli's  first  novel,  "Vivian  Grey,"  extravagant  almost  to 
absurdity,  was  published  in  1826,  his  restrained  and  masterly 

'Henrietta  Temple"  ten  years  later.  Bulwer's  fanciful  "Falk- 
land appeared  in  1827,  his  carefully  studied  "Pompeii"  in  1835. 
Balzac  s  earliest  notable  work,  "The  Last  Chouan/'  was  issued 
in  1829.  It  is  thoroughly  romantic;  yet  his  realistic  "Eugenie 
Grandet"  followed  it  as  early  as  1832.  As  for  Hugo,  his  first 
published  work,  "Hans  of  Iceland,"  came  out  in  1825,  but  his 

Les  Miserables"  not  until  1862,  and  his  most  nearly  realistic 
novel  "Ninety-Three"  not  until  1874. 

182 


CHARACTER 

of  their  youth,  while  young  men  asserted  the  value  of  the 
real,  the  actual.  Scott  died  in  1831,  but  Cooper  continued 
writing  during  the  entire  period.  His  "Deerslayer,"  with 
its  beautiful  pictures  of  the  hero  and  his  Indian  comrade, 
Chingachgook,  did  not  appear  till  1841.  Lever's  poetical 
Irishmen  are  of  this  period,  and  so  are  those  last  and  most 
loved  heroes  of  the  old  regime,  D'Artagnan  and  his 
friends,  and  Monte  Cristo. 

Despite  the  splendor  of  these  romances,  reality  would 
not  be  denied.  Balzac  gave  it  his  allegiance ;  Disraeli  his. 

The  signs  of  the  times  might  have  been 
R  e..  .  read  as  early  as  1821  in  the  reception  of 

Period  ^at    puerile    work    already    mentioned, 

Egan's  "Life  in  London."  In  this,  Corin- 
thian Tom  escorts  his  country  cousin  Jerry  through  the 
various  resorts  of  London,  accompanied  by  Bob  Logic,  the 
Oxonian.  One  disreputable  place  after  another  is  de- 
scribed, with  what  the  heroes  saw  and  did  there,  the  scene 
usually  degenerating  into  a  drunken  orgy. 

It  is  noteworthy  that  in  this  very  popular  book  the  plea 
is  persistently  advanced  that  the  "study  of  character"  is 
a  most  valuable  training  and  occupation ;  and  the  wander- 
ings of  Tom  and  Jerry  are  all  nominally  undertaken  with 
this  object  in  view.  The  book  was  accepted  by  the  young 
bloods  of  the  day  as  their  true  biography,  and  they  de- 
lighted in  its  puns  and  slang.  Numerous  imitations  and 
dramatizations  of  it  followed.  The  purposeless  obscenity 
of  the  tale  is  very  offensive  to  modern  taste ;  but  we  find 
Thackeray  recalling  the  book  with  affection;  and  it 
started  the  school  of  "pictures  of  real  life,"  which  led  to 
"Pickwick  Papers." 

183 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

Dickens  and  Thackeray,  though  not  the  beginners  of 
the  great  novelistic  reaction  against  the  ideal,  became  its 
most  notable  upholders.  Later  critics  have  declared  Dick- 
ens' figures  to  be  as  unreal  as  Monte  Cristo.  But  this 
does  not  remove  him  from  among  the  teachers  of  realism. 
His  characters  are  at  least  intended  to  be  real;  and  they 
were  accepted  as  such  by  their  own  day.  Your  true  de- 
votee of  Dickens  will  assert,  even  now,  that  underneath 
the  exaggeration  there  lies  always  a  core  of  truth.  What 
I  have  said  of  Sterne,  they  would  apply  to  Dickens:  he 
conceived  his  characters  in  the  spirit  of  burlesque,  of 
caricature;  but  always,  revealed  beneath  the  jester's  cloak, 
moves  the  human  form.  Others  have  denied  this;  they 
assert  that  Dickens'  method  consisted  of  so  over-empha- 
sizing one  feature  of  a  man  that  everything  else  disap- 
pears and  a  monstrosity  is  created,  an  empty  form  swayed 
only  by  its  one  excessive  trait,  and  unmoved,  uninfluenced, 
by  all  the  world  beside.  According  to  this  view,  then, 
we  have  here  only  types,  and  not  "overloaded  with  at- 
tributes" at  that.  To  bring  up  the  character  of  David 
Copperfield  in  appeal  against  this  decision  is  unavailing; 
for  Copperfield  again,  like  Tom  Jones  and  Evelina,  is 
autobiographic. 

In  Thackeray's  character  pictures  we  reach  obviously 
and  immediately  a  far  higher  level.  In  the  simpler, 
broader  sense  in  which  we  have  so  far  faced  character 
Thackeray's  figures  are  wholly  human  and  complete.  If 
subtler  questions  have  arisen  since  his  day,  it  is  not  impos- 
sible that  the  master  may  have  given  some  of  them  their 
best  solution  without  measuring  them.  The  two  more 
recent  points  of  discussion  on  character  technique  are, 


CHARACTER 

first,  the  question  as  to  whether  the  author  can  and  must 
dissociate  himself  wholly  from  his  own  creations ;  second, 
the  rather  anatomical  problem  as  to  how  far  he  can,  and 
shall,  dissect  the  inner  workings  of  his  figures  without 
destroying  their  life. 

This  first  problem  is  elaborately  handled  in  Maupas- 
sant's celebrated  preface  to  his  "Pierre  and  Jean."  Briefly 
stated,  the  theory  is  that  the  author's  attitude  toward  his 
creatures  must  be  wholly  objective  and  external.  Not 
only  must  he  see  them  as  beings  quite  detached  from  him- 
self and  strangers  to  his  views,  he  must  avoid  all  sym- 
pathy with  them,  must  give  them  neither  love  nor  hate, 
approval  nor  disapproval;  because,  the  moment  he  does 
so,  he  becomes  partial,  he  prejudices  our  judgment. 

With  the  first  portion  of  this  demand  Thackeray  cer- 
tainly complies.  Do  you  remember  him  in  "De  Finibus" 
describing  himself  as  writing  in  the  gray  of  the  evening, 
picturing  a  character  so  vividly  to  himself?  At  length 
he  looks  "rather  wistfully  up  from  the  paper  with  per- 
haps ever  so  little  fancy  that  HE  MAY  COME  IN." 
With  regard  to  the  further  demand,  lack  of  feeling  for  his 
characters,  avoidance  of  approval  or  disapproval,  Thack- 
eray never  complied — and  let  us  add,  in  parenthesis,  it 
would  have  been  a  sad  loss  to  literature  if  he  had. 

The  second  problem,  the  introduction  of  vivisection, 
of  scientific  psychology,  into  fiction,  arose  with  George 
Eliot,  or  let  us  say  with  her  later  works. 
The  These  are  told  only  as  character  studies. 

They  disPlav  human  beinSs  Developing 
before  our  eyes  through  life's   experi- 
ences.    And  this  development  is  insistently  the  author's 

185 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

theme,  or  rather,  not  the  development  itself,  but  the  causes 
of  it,  the  method,  the  "mechanics  of  the  human  mind." 
Indeed,  as  has  been  already  suggested,  it  is  always  the 
mind  that  interests  George  Eliot,  not  the  heart;  the  in- 
tellect, not  the  feelings.  Her  characters,  with  the  possible 
exception  of  Maggie  Tulliver — again  the  autobiographic 
figure — develop  by  thinking,  and  both  she  and  they  are 
always  discussing  this  thinking,  and  telling  why  and  how 
they  think  they  think.  The  reading  of  her  later  works 
is  scarce  to  be  classed  among  the  pleasures  of  life ;  it  is 
one  of  the  duties ;  there  is  so  much  in  them  to  learn.  We 
approach  them  as  scientific  studies,  as  an  effort,  a  tour 
de  force. 

Following  her  lead,  the  novel  took  a  distinctly  psycho- 
logic turn,  though  her  followers  have  tried  to  improve 
upon  her,  most  of  them  by  giving  emotion  a  larger  share 
in  their  analyses.1  In  this  field,  work  the  authors  who 
declare  that  plot  is  no  longer  an  important  factor  in  the 
novel;  but  George  Eliot  herself  was  very  careful  as  to 
plot.  The  point  is  worth  noting.  In  her  earlier  works 
this  great  teacher  presented  plots  perfect  and  compact. 
Her  later  works  are  very  discursive;  but  the  plot  is 
always  existent,  consecutive  and  cumulative.  Most  an- 
alytic authors  admit  the  wisdom  of  this,  and  whether  for 

*This  remark  though  based  on  the  statements  of  such  careful 
students  as  Thomas  Hardy  and  Mr.  Brownell  must  not  be  taken 
as  implying  that  George  Eliot  created  literary  psychology.  It  only 
expresses  the  general  feeling  that  she  was  an  originator  and 
leader.  Professor  Cross  has  pointed  out  the  genesis  of  the  psycho- 
logical novel  in  Mrs.  Gaskell.  In  France  at  a  far  earlier  date  we 
have  that  interesting  phenomenon,  Stendhal.  But  neither  Stend- 
hal nor  Mrs.  Gaskell  had  an  immediate  influence  in  introducing 
psychological  analysis  into  the  general  technique  of  the  novel. 

186 


CHARACTER 

their  own  or  the  public's  sake,  continue  to  seek,  if  they 
do  not  always  find,  interest  from  incident  and  story. 

The  "character  plot"  has  become  the  favorite  form  of 

the  serious  literary  novel.     Most  of  the  noted  writers 

of  recent  years,  Turgenev  and  Tolstoi  in 

Present-Day  Russia,  Tames  and  Howells  in  America, 
Conclusions  . 

Meredith  and  Hardy  in  England,  Zola 

and  Bourget  in  France,  Bjornsen  and  Sudermann  in 
the  north,  Valdes  and  D'Annunzio  in  the  south,  have 
dealt  in  character  studies  and  subtleties.  Most  of 
the  critics  approve  this  style  of  novel,  and  the  authors 
praise  one  another  with  grave  seriousness.  But  they  have 
never  had  wholly  to  themselves  the  novel-writing  field. 
There  have  always  been  writers  to  declare  all  this  intro- 
spection beyond  the  province  of  the  novel,  and  beyond 
its  power.  Action  has  still  its  advocates.  Indeed,  there 
has  been  something  very  like  a  reaction  among  the 
younger  generation.  To  such  writers  as  Stevenson  and 
Kipling  the  story  is  again  the  important  thing.  To  them 
man's  best  interpretation  seems  to  lie  in  his  outward  work. 
His  truest  portrait  is  the  deed  that  he  has  done. 

Perhaps  most  of  us  ordinary  folk  would  be  willing  to 
take  our  median  stand  with  Charles  Dudley  Warner  when 
he  says  in  his  essay  on  "Modern  Fiction,"  "The  sacrifice 
of  action  to  some  extent  to  psychological  evolution  in 
modern  fiction  may  be  an  advance  in  the  art  as  an  intel- 
lectual entertainment,  if  the  writer  does  not  make  that 
evolution  his  end,  and  does  not  forget  that  the  indis- 
pensable thing  in  a  novel  is  the  story.  The  novel  of  mere 
adventure  or  mere  plot,  it  need  not  be  urged,  is  of  a 
lower  order  than  that  in  which  the  evolution  of  characters 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

and  their  interaction  make  the  story.  The  highest  fiction 
is  that  which  embodies  both;  that  is,  the  story  in  which 
action  is  the  result  of  mental  and  spiritual  forces  in  play." 
In  this,  by  the  inclusion  of  the  words  "spiritual  forces," 
we  may  again  recognize  our  previous  demand  for  a  three- 
fold plot,  of  action,  of  developing  character,  and  of  in- 
creasing emotion. 


188 


CHAPTER  V 
EMOTION 

Importance  of  "The  novel  has  made  its  way  in  a  large 
Emotion  measure  by  an  assertion  of  the  superior- 

ity of  that  which  is  apparently  a  weaker  and  a  lesser  part 
of  life,  namely,  emotion.  For  the  novel  does  not  stand 
in  literary  history  as  a  record  of  achievement.  It  stands 
as  a  record  of  emotion.  ...  It  asserts  that  the  emo- 
tional period  in  life  is  the  great  period  of  life."  This 
view  of  the  essential  attitude  of  the  novel,  expressed  by 
Mr.  Stoddard  in  his  "Evolution  of  the  English  Novel," 
is  widely  held.  The  extreme  realists  have  indeed  pro- 
tested against  this  prominence  of  emotion  or  passion  as 
false  to  the  truth  of  life.  They  demand,  as  M.  Bourget 
phrases  it,  "mediocrity  of  heroes,  systematic  diminu- 
tion of  plot,  and  almost  total  suppression  of  dra- 
matic action."  Other  critics  have  grouped  passion  as  a 
single  minor  element  of  character.  But  in  general  its 
overshadowing  importance  and  essentially  extraneous 
impulse,  upon  the  novel  as  upon  life,  have  been  strongly 
felt.  Balzac  in  "Pere  Goriot"  speaks  of  "the  trans- 
forming power  of  an  overmastering  emotion,"  and  ex- 
plains his  meaning  by  adding:  "Sometimes  the  dullest 
spirit,  under  the  stimulus  of  passion,  reaches  to  such  elo- 
quence of  thought  if  not  of  tongue  that  it  seems  to 
breathe  in  a  celestial  ether." 

Lord  Lytton,  an  abler  critic  of  others  than  of  himself, 

189 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

declares  in  his  introduction  to  "Pompeii"  that  in  the 
novel  everything  else  must  be  "subordinate  to  the  vital 
elements  of  interest,  viz.,  plot,  character  and  passion." 
And  again,  after  expressing  the  hope  that  his  book  may 
be  a  faithful  portrait  of  its  times,  he  continues,  "May  it 
be  (what  is  far  more  important)  a  just  representation  of 
the  human  passions  and  the  human  heart." 

If  we  regard  the  novel  in  this  light,  as  a  "study  of 

the  human  heart,"  the  "portrayal  of  a  passion,"  the  story 

of  some  emotional  upheaval  with  causes 

Stud*  of*1*  and  effectS'  in  that  Case  we  mUSt  Seek 

Passion  **s  or^n  m  France,  the  land  of  emotion ; 

and  we  shall  agree  with  Frenchmen  in 
saying  that  the  first  modern  novel  was  Madame 
Lafayette's  "Princess  of  Cleves."  This  as  we  have  seen 
(Chapter  VI,  Part  I)  is  clearly  the  story  of  a  passion,  a 
feeble  passion,  if  you  will,  but  genuinely  felt  by  author 
and  by  reader,  and  hence  widely  different  from  the  con- 
ventional assertions  of  overwhelming  emotion  which 
make  the  chivalric  tales  such  pleasant  reading  for  the 
humorist. 

Yet  despite  Madame  Lafayette's  pointing  of  the  road, 
the  aristocratic  romancers  of  France  continued  to  mis- 
represent passion.  While  centring  attention,  as  they 
had  long  done,  on  the  single  passion  of  love,  they  merely 
dallied  with  it  in  courtly  dilettante  fashion,  playing  at 
the  game,  making  models  and  maps  of  love's  country. 
They  shrank  from  entrance  into  passion's  real  domain, 
from  touching  passion's  heart  of  fire,  or  facing  its  some- 
time ugliness. 

Not  until  the  time  of  the  Abbe  Prevost  was  emotion 
190  " 


EMOTION 

again  approached  with  any  real  conviction  or  sincerity. 
In  his  master  work,  "Manon  Lescaut,"  we  have  a  true, 
a  startling  picture  of  a  real,  human,  physical  love,  and 
the  excesses  to  which  it  leads.  Moreover,  breaking  flatly 
from  the  sentimentality  of  the  day,  Prevost  makes  the 
hero  recover  his  common  sense  after  his  mistress'  death. 
The  madness  fades  from  his  heart ;  and,  restored  to  ordi- 
nary life,  he  seeks  Paris  and  his  friends.  As  studies 
of  character,  the  chevalier  and  his  mistress  leave  much 
to  be  desired;  as  studies  of  passion,  they  are  tragically 
true. 

"Manon  Lescaut"  appears  to  have  been  first  published 
at  Amsterdam  in  1733;  but  there  is  no  evidence  that 
when,  in  1739,  Richardson  began  "Pamela,"  he  was 
familiar  with  Prevost's  work.  Nor  does  he  follow  along 
its  lines.  Passions  exist  in  "Pamela";  but  as  compared 
with  those  in  Prevost  they 

"Are  as  moonlight  unto  sunlight,  and  as  water  unto  wine." 

In  fact  here  at  the  very  beginning  of  French  and  English 
novels  one  encounters  a  racial  distinction.  The  English- 
man fights  passion  as  a  foe;  the  Frenchman  clasps  itj 
as  an  inspiration.  The  Anglo-Saxon  seeks  to  be,  and  to 
remain,  his  own  self  rather  than  aught  else  in  all  the 
universes;  the  man  of  Romance  race  eagerly  merges  his 
self  in  the  greater,  broader,  unmeasurable  "Beyond." 
Hence  the  English  novel  places  character^above  passion  • 
the  French  reverses  this.  Consider  this  even  in  "Jane 
Eyre,"  quoted  by  Englishmen  as  the  type  of  passion,  ex- 
treme and  uncontrolled.  Even  there  we  find  "principle" 
so  fixed  in  the  heroine's  mind  that  on  learning  of  the 

191 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

existence  of  her  lover's  wife,  she  leaves  him.  In  one  of 
the  truest  bits  of  English  fiction,  she  admits  the  longing, 
the  temptation,  to  continue  by  his  side ;  yet  she  goes  out 
into  another  life.  What  she  is,  dominates  what  she  de- 
sires. The  self,  the  mass  of  ideas,  impressions,  and  opin- 
ions, inherited  and  absorbed,  is  stronger  than  the  new 
element,  the  passion.  Only  the  ultimate  kindness  of  the 
novelist  in  killing  off  the  undesired  wife,  enables  Jane 
Eyre  to  bend  her  will  into  harmony  with  her  wish. 

Returning  to  consider  the  use  of  passion,  or  let  us 

substitute  the  milder  word,  emotion,  in  "Pamela,"  the 

book,  as  we  have  already  noted,  is  a 

Richardson's         study,  a  marvellously  true  study,  of  a 

woman.     In  woman,  at  least  so  far  as 
the  Emotional 
Cujt  mere  man,  speaking  with  all  humility, 

has  been  able  to  judge  of  her,  character 
is  less  positive  than  in  her  helpmate.  That  is,  she  is  more 
fluid;  the  fixed,  the  formal,  the  solid  part  of  her  is 
less.  She  is  more  the  creature  of  the  mood,  the  moment, 
the  inspiration,  the  emotion.  Hence,  if  Richardson  was 
to  portray  woman  truthfully,  it  was  inevitable  that  emo- 
tion should  be  much  in  evidence.  Pamela's  character, 
indeed,  is  fixed  for  us  from  the  start.  She  is  a  "Good 
Girl" ;  to  that  she  will  hold  throughout,  with  true  British 
solidity.  But  over  the  surface  of  this  one  immovable 
fact,  flows  a  most  marvellous  play  of  emotion,  varied, 
sparkling,  poetic,  true.  It  gives,  to  modern  eyes,  the 
one  lasting  value  of  the  book.  Passion  of  a  stronger 
type  is  suggested  in  Pamela's  master,  Mr.  B. ;  but  he 
is  seen  so  wholly  through  Pamela's  eyes,  is  so  vague  and 
feminine  a  figure  in  his  doubts  and  changes  and  hesi- 

192 


EMOTION 

tations,  that  a  reader  gets  no  firm  grasp  of  him,  no 
confident  understanding. 

In  Richardson's  later  works  emotion  is  handled  with 
the  same  sureness  and  delicacy.  It  is  also  given  a  far 
larger  influence  over  life.  Yet  it  is  notable  that,  in 
"Grandison,"  desiring  to  depict  the  hero's  first  love, 
Clementina,  as  wholly  under  the  control  of  passion,  he 
felt  it  necessary  to  deny  her  English  blood.  In  that  de- 
lightfully characteristic  blunder  of  his,  he  even  denies 
her  human  nature  altogether.  He  divides  his  figures 
into  three  lists,  as  men,  women,  and  Italians. 

It  is  this  emotional  quality  of  Richardson's  work  that 
explains  the  peculiar  nature  of  his  fame.  This  was 
greater  abroad  than  at  home.  Continental  Europe,  and 
especially  France,  hailed  him  as  the  genius  of  the  age. 
Diderot,  the  leading  scholar  and  man  of  letters  of  the 
time,  ranked  Richardson  by  the  side  of  Euripides  and 
Homer.  De  Musset  places  "Clarissa"  highest  among 
all  the  novels  of  the  world.  The  first  chorus  of  Gallic 
enthusiasm  found  no  dissentient  voice.  Even  France's 
own  son,  Marivaux,  who  had  preceded  Richardson  and 
who  as  an  analyst  of  woman's  heart  is  close  akin  to  him, 
was  rejected  from  comparison.  He  was  dismissed  with 
Prevost  and  Madame  Lafayette  as  being  wholly 
inferior. 

Homer  had  created  the  epic,  had  been  the  voice  of  the 
body,  of  Nature,  speaking  the  frank  full  joy  in  life. 
Euripides,  the  master  of  the  drama,  had  given  voice  to  the 
soul  in  its  stern  conflict  against  life.  Richardson,  in  estab- 
lishing the  novel,  found  a  voice  for  the  heart,  with  all  its 
changing  moods  toward  life,  its  hesitant  ebb  and  flow.  \ 

193 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

The  women  of  England  felt  the  power  of  Richardson, 
as  we  have  seen ;  and  if  their  praise  of  their  idol  was  less 

discriminating  than  that  of  France,  it 
Dismissal  of  equally  enthusiastic.  But  among 

Emotion  by  the  r    T7     i     j    *u 

English  Realists    ^e    men    °*    England    there    arose    a 

sturdy  and  characteristic  rebellion 
against  this  portrayal  of  the  world  as  centred  on  emotion. 
The  creator  of  Pamela  and  Mr.  B.  was  ridiculed  as  senti- 
mental, a  teacher  of  false  sentiment  and  false  morality. 
Emotion,  declared  his  assailants,  existed  of  course,  but 
it  was  a  minor  thing  of  little  influence  and  of  little  con- 
sequence when  compared  to  character.  Character  was 
the  true  dominant  force  over  life,  of  which  Richardson's 
pictures  gave  only  a  maudlin,  hysterical  misconception. 
This  attack  upon  the  self-complacent  printer  still  con- 
tinues. Even  to-day  there  are  not  lacking  British  critics 
of  high  ability  who  stand  wholly  true  to  their  race  and 
sex,  and,  firmly  denying  existence  to  everything  they  are 
unable  to  see,  find  only  amaze,  suspicion  or  contempt  for 
all  past  and  present  admirers  of  Richardson. 

It  was  in  Fielding's  writings  that  this  protest  received 
its  first  clear  voice.  And  certainly  life,  or  at  least  so 
much  of  life  as  reveals  itself  to  most  of  us  in  personal 
experience,  finds  a  simpler,  saner  echo  in  Fielding's  work. 
Emotion,  even  passion,  is  there  depicted,  but  as  a  tem- 
porary impulse.  It  rises,  and  it  passes ;  and  the  man  goes 
on.  Usually  it  is  a  mere  "flash  in  the  pan,"  Molly 
Seagrim  charging  against  the  whole  village  in  the  church- 
yard, Tom  Jones  in  his  grief  at  the  loss  of  Allworthy's 
affection  extravagantly  tossing  everything  away  from 
him,  even  the  note  for  £500  upon  which  his  entire  future 

194 


EMOTION 

depends.  Indeed,  in  such  an  incident  as  this,  or  in  Tom's 
weeping  repentance  and  reform  in  the  jail,  passion  may 
possibly  be  accused  of  an  hysteria  to  which  it  never  mounts 
in  Richardson.  The  staunchest  adherents  of  Fielding 
find  themselves  compelled  to  explain  that  his  was  an  emo- 
tional age. 

Looking  to  the  general  dominance  of  passion,  such  as 
the  love  and  desire  and  despair  which  sweeps  from  end 
to  end  through  "Clarissa  Harlowe,"  this  is  absent  in 
Fielding.  Indeed  it  is  directly  and  deliberately  negatived. 
Jones  loves  his  Sophia,  we  are  told ;  yet  on  losing  her  he 
rushes  immediately  into  a  new  life,  and  has  an  incon- 
gruously good  time  both  on  the  road  to  London  and  after 
his  arrival.  The  later  reversal  of  his  fortunes  and  his 
wedding  to  Sophia  do  not  come  to  the  reader  with  any 
of  that  sense  of  finality,  of  a  story  closed  and  completed, 
such  as  is  felt  with  Richardson.1  To  Jones  the  affairs 
of  the  story  are  only  incidents ;  "the  man  goes  on."  In- 
deed, a  parodist  of  the  day  feeling  this,  and  feeling  also 
the  untrustworthy  mechanism  of  Fielding's  plot,  wrote 
a  continuation.  In  this,  after  Allworthy's  death,  the  de- 

*I  would  not  push  this  point  too  far.  It  is  a  curious  fact  in  the 
development  of  these  two  masters,  that  Richardson  in  "Pamela," 
his  earliest  work,  shows  no  recognition  of  the  true  closing  point 
of  his  story  but  wanders  on  and  on.  Only  by  his  endless  iteration 
are  we  convinced,  if  convinced  at  all,  that  the  story  is  really  com- 
plete, that  Mr.  B.  remained  converted  and  refrained  from  giving 
Pamela  a  most  tempestuous  future.  On  the  other  hand  in  Field- 
ing's very  early  work,  "Jonathan  Wild,"  which  probably  antedated 
even  "Joseph  Andrews"  in  composition,  we  have  a  tragedy  pur- 
sued with  savage  scorn  to  its  relentless  end.  Richardson  moved 
onward  to  dramatic  completeness  of  form;  Fielding,  starting 
there,  gave  to  his  later  work  something  of  that  air  of  incomplete- 
ness which  a  recent  school  of  novelists  has  maintained  to  be 
essential  for  truth  to  life. 

195 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

fcated  and  wicked  nephew  Blifil  sues  Tom  for  his  inherit- 
ance, and,  by  easily  winning  the  case  at  law,  reopens  to  the 
hero  the  life  of  adventure. 

Among  the  novelists  who  immediately  followed  the 
two  great  originators,  one  sees  markedly  the  influence 
of  both  sex  and  race.  In  England  most  of  the  women 
writers  dealt  mainly  with  emotion,  the  men  with  char- 
acter and  incident.  Smollett,  with  his  cold  spirit,  gives 
emotion  even  lesser  place  than  Fielding.  Only  in  his 
weakest  book,  "Count  Fathom,"  can  it  be  positively  said 
to  exist  at  all.  Johnson  while  admiring  even  to  excess  the 
feeling  in  Richardson — "there  is  more  knowledge  of  the 
human  heart  in  one  letter  of  Richardson's  than  in  all 
Tom  Jones' " — failed  wholly  to  express  similar  feeling 
in  "Rasselas." 

Meanwhile,  on  the  continent  of  Europe,  the  greatest 
writers     seized     on     Richardson's     design.       Goethe's 
"Werther"  may  almost  be  accepted  as 
the  type  form  of  the  emotional  novel. 
Emotion  *  Jt  is  entirety  and  emphatically  "the  story 

of  a  passion."  As  such  it  was  caught 
up  by  the  youth  of  the  world.  The  spirit  of  romanticism 
found  here  its  fullest  vent.  The  devotees  of  Werther 
declared  passion  to  be  infinitely  above  life ;  and  the  most 
enthusiastic  among  them,  in  impassioned  imitation  of 
Werther,  killed  themselves  merely  to  prove  their  point. 
Goethe  himself  outlived  the  extravagance  of  his  early 
novel;  but  following  his  early  mood  there  arose  that 
whole  wonderful  school  of  German  romanticists.  These 
men  contemptuously  rejected  ordinary  life  in  the  search 
for  emotion,  for  larger  passions  and  more  sublime  delights 

196 


EMOTION 

than  modern  civilization  could  offer  them.  Fouque 
dreamed  of  Undine,  the  water-sprite  whose  life,  whose 
very  soul,  depended  on  love.  He  pictured  Sintram, 
thrown  into  actual  physical  conflict  with  man's  two 
"companions,"  Death  and  the  Devil,  fighting  the  fiend  on 
the  field  of  battle,  and  conquering  him  amid  the  clash  of 
armies.  Through  unnumbered  tales,  runs  the  mystical 
search  for  the  "blue  flower"  of  perfect  joy.  Or  there  is 
Hoffmann's  masterpiece  of  the  "Golden  Pot,"  wherein 
are  nonsense,  enchantment,  beauty,  power  and  imagina- 
tion, heaped  up  in  overwhelming  profusion,  with  a  side 
glance  of  scorn  at  common  men.  A  number  of  clerks  are 
derisively  pictured  as  shut  up  in  a  row  in  crystal  bottles, 
barred  forever  from  free  life  and  the  free  air  of  heaven, 
yet  stolidly  plodding  away  at  their  ledgers,  quite  uncon- 
scious of  their  imprisonment. 

In  France,  at  an  even  earlier  date  than  Goethe,  came 
Rousseau.  His  "Heloise"  and  "Emile"  may  be,  they  are, 
poor  novels  and  false  teachers  of  life.  Yet  they  are 
great  books  despite  their  confusion  and  their  folly. 
Following  the  lead  of  Richardson,  they  gave  vent  to  emo- 
tion. They  unchained  sentiment;  and  sentiment  find- 
ing itself  in  sudden  freedom,  uncontrolled,  unknowing 
its  own  need,  its  own  domain,  rushed  into  every  imagin- 
able excess.  Emotion,  the  exaggeration  of  emotion,  long 
proved  in  France  the  chief  foe  to  the  real  progress  of 
the  novel.  Rene,  the  morbid  hero  of  Chateaubriand, 
may  be  taken  as  the  French  Werther,  only  eaten  up  by 
egoism  and  lacking  strength  for  suicide. 

In  England,  the  emotional  novel  never  reached  such 
extravagance.  The  "lady  novelists"  who  imitated  Richard- 

197 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

son  in  their  hounding  of  a  persecuted  heroine,  did  in- 
deed run  into  emotional  excess;  but  they  kept  some 
bound  upon  their  folly.  They  even  made  an  effort  to 
keep  in  touch  with  actual  life,  as  in  Mrs.  Brunton's  "Self- 
Control,"  or  the  so-called  American  novel  "Charlotte 
Temple"  by  Mrs.  Rowson,  whose  plot  is  taken  from  real 
life,  and  the  grave  of  whose  heroine  was  long  pointed 
out  in  an  American  churchyard.1 

Even  the  English  "romantic  novel"  itself,  the  tale  of 
Gothic  mystery  which  began  with  "Otranto,"  did  not  deal 
primarily  with  the  emotions  of  its  characters,  but  with 
those  of  its  readers.  There  is  very  little  real  emotion  in 
"Otranto."  The  ghosts  are  intended  to  make  the  reader 
fear;  actual  spectators  of  their  visitations  accept  them 
with  an  admirable  philosophic  calm.  Only  under  Mrs. 
Radcliffe's  guidance  did  the  sentimental  heroine  of  hor- 
rors learn  to  exhibit  a  proper  state  of  emotional  distress. 
Maturin,  a  later  master  of  this  school,  deliberately 
abandoned  love  as  the  central  passion  of  his  tales, 
argued  against  it  as  being  seldom  an  extreme  emotion, 
and  expressed  his  intent  "to  found  the  interest  of 
a  romance  on  the  passion  of  supernatural  fear,  and  on 

'It  is  interesting  to  note  how  in  "Charlotte  Temple"  the  actu- 
ality of  the  plot  restrained  Mrs.  Rowson  in  imitating  the  senti- 
mental and  emotional  extravagance  of  her  contemporaries.  She 
alters  the  real  names  of  every  one  except  the  heroine,  and  so  is 
enabled  to  decorate  her  male  figures  with  such  beauteous  appella- 
tions as  Montraville  and  Belcour.  But  the  hero  is  distinctly  im- 
perfect, and  the  heroine,  although  betrayed  and  ruined,  fails  to  go 
mad  or  die  of  despair.  She  lives  with  her  betrayer  until  he 
wearies  of  her  and  then  she  prepares  to  return  home,  but  dies,  as 
it  were,  by  accident.  Neither  the  villain  nor  the  semi-villainous 
hero  slays  himself  from  remorse.  One  forgets  Charlotte  in  woo- 
ing a  country  maid;  the  other  marries  and  is  left  in  comfort. 

198 


EMOTION 

that  almost  alone."    This  he  argues  is  the  only  passion 
really  universal  and  uncontrollable. 

These  works  were  but  eddies  in  the  stream  of  fiction. 
Its  true  current  swept  onward  through  the  work  of  Miss 
Burney,  whose  good  spirits  and  simple 
Reaction  truthfulness  prevented  her  from  follow- 

ing  passion    into   rhodomontade.     Her 
Evelina  has  indeed  a  most  uncomfortable  tendency  to 
faint  on  every  possible  occasion,  a  difficulty  which  in 
our  harder-headed  day  would   be  attributed  to  bodily 
anaemia,  calling  for  the  instant  care  of  a  physician,  but     v 
in  that  sentimental  age  was  understood  to  be  merely  a     / 
poetic  tribute  to  the  overwhelming  surge  of  feminine 
emotion.     Barring  this  single  concession  to  convention, 
Evelina  is  a  robust,  hearty,  high-spirited  young  girl,  an 
honor  to  her  creator  and  her  race.    Her  experiences  and 
her  story  are  not  such  as  to  rouse  special  emotional  deeps     , 
within  her,  nor  does  Miss  Burney  herself  seem  to  know 
of  the  existence  of  these. 

If  Miss  Burney  reduced  emotion  to  her  own  height, 
Miss  Edgeworth,  a  deeper  nature  and  a  greater  artist, 
declared  against  passion  altogether,  with  stern  moral  dis- 
approval. The  task  she  designedly  set  herself  was,  to 
teach  young  ladies  that  they  exaggerated  their  emotional  ^ 
side,  that  love  like  every  other  excitement  not  only 
should  but  easily  could  be  conquered,  if  the  effort  were 
made.  The  young  ladies  of  all  Europe  had  by  this  date 
learned,  through  three  generations  of  novel  reading,  that 
blighted  affection  ought  to  cause  an  early  death,  or 
at  least  an  utter  loss  of  interest  in  life;  and  many  a 
naturally  healthy,  merry  lass  did  her  simple  best  to  live 

199 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

up  to  this  ideal.  Miss  Edgeworth  tried  to  restore  her 
sex  to  common  sense.  Looking  only  at  her  heroines,  one 
is  tempted  to  say  she  swung  the  balance  too  far,  and  her- 
self became  incapable  of  recognizing  real  strength  of 
passion.  She  came,  however,  of  an  emotional  race,  and 
in  her  pictures  of  Irish  life,  in  "Castle  Rackrent"  espe- 
cially, there  is  not  only  tense  emotion  in  the  writer,  but 
also  a  tragic  recognition  of  its  power  over  her  country- 
men. So  also  in  her  Lady  Delacour  in  "Belinda,"  she 
has  given  us  a  keen,  heartfelt  picture  of  emotion  play- 
ing havoc  with  two  lives. 

Jane  Austen's  attitude  toward  passion  conies  as  near 
to  actual  denial  of  its  existence  as  so  great  an  artist 
could  approach.  She  is  non-committal,  ready  perhaps  to 
grant  its  possibility;  but  as  it  has  never  come  within  her 
purview,  she  excludes  it  from  her  perfect  reproduction 
of  the  life  she  knew.  As  for  the  false  passion  and  exag- 
gerated sensibility  of  most  novels  of  the  day,  she  greets 
them  with  inextinguishable  ridicule.  Nay,  so  far  does 
she  carry  her  defiance  that  in  "Northanger  Abbey"  she 
explains  that  her  hero  knew  in  advance  how  much  the 
novel-reading  heroine  was  devoted  to  him,  and  that  the 
feeble  responsive  feeling  in  his  mind  was  roused  chiefly 
by  gratitude  and  by  the  pleasure  which  he  took  in  the 
lady's  admiration.  Surely  never  was  passion  so  be- 
littled and  deliberately  turned  out  of  doors.  The  pic- 
ture is  as  true  to  practical  life  and  the  probabilities  of 
the  situation,  as  it  is  undramatic  and  unnecessary. 

Scott's  broader  view  of  existence  rehabilitated  passion, 
almost  reenthroned  it,  mightier  than  before.  He  res- 
cued portrait  painting  equally  from  the  hectic  fires  of 

200 


EMOTION 

Mrs.  Radcliffe  and  the  barren  cold  of  Miss  Austen. 
Passion  is  always  the  mainspring  of  his  central  figures. 
One  is  even  tempted  to  suggest  that  he  dealt  with  them 
emotionally  to  escape  the  more  exacting  task  of  study- 
ing their  characters.  In  his  historical  figures  and  some 
of  his  Scotch  folk  he  has  shown  how  keenly  he  could 
analyze  and  realize  a  human  being,  when  he  would.  He 
has  imposed  his  Louis  XI  upon  history,  and  so,  almost, 
his  Leicester  and  his  James  the  First,  his  Coeur  de  Lion 
and  his  Saladin. 

In  glancing  thus  far  over  our  field  it  has  seemed  un- 
necessary  to   point    the   obvious    remark   that   emotion 
tended  to  connect  itself  with  the  pre- 
The  Union  of       sentation  of  idealized  truth,  while  close 
Emotion  and 

Verisimilitude  portrayal  of  the  actual  led  usually  to 
study  of  character  and  manners.  In 
Balzac  arose  me  first  great  writer  to  combine  passion 
with  careful  actuality.  Never  since  his  day  and  that  of 
Bulwer  have  the  two  been  wholly  apart.  The  absurdi- 
ties of  earlier  romance  are  unthinkable  to  the  decades 
that  follow.  Even  Dumas  created  only  a  single  unhu- 
man  monster,  Milady  in  the  "Three  Musketeers." 

Balzac  certainly  stands  out  as  a  striking  figure  in  the 
novel's  history.  He  has  had  many  followers;  he  had  no 
predecessors.  Before  his  time  the  French  novel  was, 
as  we  have  pointed  out,  almost  wholly  autobiographical, 
the  result  as  in  Rousseau  and  Chateaubriand  of  affec- 
tionate self-study,  with  morbid  revivifying  and  revealing 
of  unhealthful  emotions.  Balzac's  work  is  objective. 
His  characters  stand  wholly  outside  himself.  They  are 
largely  swayed  by  emotion,  because  their  creator  saw 

201 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

emotion  as  a  mighty  factor  in  life ;  but  their  passions  are 
their  own,  not  his,  the  passions  of  the  day;  and  these 
are  analyzed,  not  with  sickly  admiration,  but  with 
thoughtful  recognition  of  both  their  value  and  their 
weakness. 

Balzac's  greatness  was  only  slowly  recognized  in 
France.  His  contemporaries  continued  to  deal  chiefly 
with  romance  and  exaggerated  emotion.  Even  George 
Sand,  who  perhaps  in  this  respect  came  nearest  to  Balzac 
at  the  time,  confesses  she  is  often  carried  away  by  love 
of  the  romantic,  though  striving  to  escape  disaster  by  a 
middle  course  between  the  dull  "lake"  of  analysis,  and 
the  reckless  "torrent"  of  passion.  Merimee  also  was 
afraid  of  emotion,  suspicious  of  it;  yet  he  employed  it 
to  the  full.  Gautier  might  ridicule  the  blunders  of  the 
romanticists,  but  he  had  no  substitute  to  offer  for  pas- 
sion in  preserving  interest.  The  extreme  reaction  of  the 
French  novel  against  its  emotional  debauch  does  not  find 
expression  until  the  publication  of  Flaubert's  "Madame 
Bovary"  in  1856. 

This  remarkable  work  is  a  deliberate  attack  upon 
novels  as  Flaubert  knew  them.  He  depicts  a  woman 
saturated  with  the  sentimental  ideas  inculcated  by  them, 
seeking  to  find  in  life  the  "felicity"  and  "passion"  and 
"intoxication"  to  which  they  so  beautifully  refer.  Her 
life  by  the  side  of  a  commonplace  husband  becomes  un- 
endurable to  her.  She  seeks  for  love  and  lovers,  but 
only  finds  other  ordinary  men,  who  take  all  she  can 
give  and  then  despise  her.  They  play  the  game  as  they 
understand  it,  but  not  according  to  her  novelistic  rules. 
She  drifts  on  into  disgust,  despair,  and  suicide.  The 

202 


EMOTION 

stern,  offensive,  truthful  picture  came  like  a  blow  upon 
French  writers;  its  influence  has  never  been  forgotten. 

In  England  meanwhile,  romance  had  escaped  the  lower 
passions;  it  had  dealt  rather  with  adventure  and  excite- 
ment, and  avoided  the  sounding  of  emotional  deeps.  Its 
sentiment  remained  idealistic,  not  hedonistic.  If  we  ignore 
the  scribblers  who  divorced  their  romances  wholly  from 
verisimilitude,  Dickens  pushed  the  emotional  appeal 
farther  than  any  previous  English  writer  since  Richard- 
son. His  great  scenes,  his  climaxes,  are  always  emo- 
tional, and  he  must  have  considerably  raised  the  price  of 
pocket  handkerchiefs  in  Britain.  It  was  this  that  con- 
stituted his  chief  hold  on  his  enormous  public.  To  un- 
trained ears  at  least,  his  sentiment  "rang  true."  Whether 
it  was  really  so,  there  has  been  much  dispute;  but  it  is 
probable  that  no  single  tragedy  in  actual  life  ever  caused 
such  widespread  weeping  as  did  the  death  of  Little 
Nell,  over  which  the  noted  critic  Lord  Jeffrey  was  found 
"sobbing  terribly."  Of  course  we  must  discriminate 
between  the  depiction  of  emotion  as  swaying  a  charac- 
ter, and  the  arousal  of  emotion  in  a  reader  by  means  of 
pathetic  scenes.  But  the  two  are  seldom  far  apart;  and 
in  Dickens  especially  the  characters  are  filled  with  emo- 
tion, just  because  he  himself  was  so  filled ;  and  characters 
and  author  unite  to  play  upon  the  reader's  heartstrings. 
Tolstoi  said  of  Dickens  that  his  chief  claim  to  fame  lay 
in  his  feeling  for  the  underlying  divinity  in  all  common 
and  humble  lives.  Dickens  tells  us  that  he  himself  could 
not  sleep  for  nights  through  thinking  of  Little  Nell.  Td 
a  friend  he  wrote,  "I  am  breaking  my  heart  over  this 
story  and  can  not  bear  to  finish  it."  If  ever  the  English 

203 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

people  were  in  danger  of  being  carried  away  by  senti- 
ment and  having  an  entire  national  bouleversement  of 
character,  it  was  when  they  yielded  themselves  to  the 
magic  craft  of  Dickens. 

In  this  single  respect  then,  Dickens  may  well  be  com- 
pared to  Richardson;  and  the  antithesis  seen  in  Dickens 
and  Thackeray  has  often  been  balanced  against  that  in 
Richardson  and  Fielding.  The  difference  between  the 
two  later  masters,  however,  was  never  of  such  divergence 
nor  of  such  elemental  character  as  in  the  older  case. 
Fielding  could  not  possibly  appreciate  Richardson;  he 
mocked  him  as  an  author  and  despised  him  as  a  man. 
Thackeray  treasured  many  of  the  works  of  Dickens,  and 
praised  them  heartily  for  both  their  pathos  and  their 
humor. 

As  to  Thackeray's  own  treatment  of  emotion,  it  agrees 
with  Fielding's,  or  perhaps  one  might  better  say  with 
Balzac's.  He  deals  with  passion  as  he  has  found  it  in 
the  world.  The  cosmos  which  he  has  created,  is  an 
English  cosmos,  and  therefore  less  interpenetrated  with 
fire  than  that  of  Balzac.  His  Amelia  Sedley  is  a  creature 
of  emotion  throughout;  but  Becky  Sharp  holds  herself 
well  in  check  with  little  difficulty.  Her  husband  Rawdon 
Crawley  may  serve  for  contrast  with  Tom  Jones.  Raw- 
don is  not  the  hero  of  the  book,  but  a  minor  figure  rather 
contemptuously  treated ;  yet  emotionally  he  does  not  bal- 
ance unfavorably  with  Jones.  Like  Jones  he  has  his 
rather  weepy  times  of  sentiment,  and  his  one  passionate 
outburst;  but  his  passion  is  better  justified  than  that  of 
Fielding's  hero,  and  its  effect  more  lasting.  Indeed  most 
of  Thackeray's  climaxes  are  emotional,  though  treated 

204 


EMOTION 

with  greater  restraint  than  among  earlier  authors.  So 
also  with  his  closings.  Colonel  Esmond  lays  down  his 
pen  with  a  burst  of  impassioned  praise  of  love  as  "the 
highest  faculty  of  the  soul."  Pendennis  ends  by  assuring 
us  of  the  depths  of  a  wife's  affection,  tells  us  that  his 
friend  Warrington  survived  a  deep  heart  sickness,  and 
adds  a  cautionary  aside — "That  malady  is  never  fatal  to 
a  sound  organ."  In  brief  Thackeray's  own  day  com- 
pared him  with  Dickens,  and  called  him  cynical;  our 
later  critics  compare  him  with  life,  and  sometimes  call 
him  sentimental. 

It  was  into  this  London  of  Dickens  and  Thackeray 

that  in   1847  the  Brontes  interjected  their   remarkable 

work.     The     effect     was     tremendous. 

Manners  had  changed  widely  in  the  cen- 
Power  of  .  T-  u-  j  o  11  *  A 

Passion  turv  smce  Fielding  and  Smollett.     Au- 

thors of  the  later  age  still  talked  of  the 
"Passions,"  to  be  sure;  but  these  were  treated  distantly, 
as  a  family  of  very  slight  acquaintance,  and  hardly  re- 
spectable at  that.  One  saluted  them  doubtfully,  with 
gloved  hands,  so  to  speak,  especially  those  that  dealt  of 
sex.  "Ah,  Miss  Love,  you  look  charming  to-day.  What  ? 
You  a.re  not  Love  but  Vanity  ?  Pray,  pardon  my  stupid 
blunder;  this  then  is  Miss  Love?  No,  Jealousy?  How 
foolish  of  me!  And  this  you  say  is  Miss  Lust?  No, 
miss,  excuse  me,  I  am  quite  sure  we  have  never  met." 
Even  Thackeray  drew  a  veil  over  much  that  Becky 
Sharp  must  have  seen  and  felt.  It  is  shown  only  in  its 
consequences. 

Into  this  "decent"  world  there  suddenly  stepped  for- 
ward three  young  women,  women  mind  you,  speaking  of 

205 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

the  passions  as  closest  intimates,  dealing  with  them  fully 
and  frankly  as  each  in  her  own  life  had  found  them  to 
exist.  In  Emily  Bronte's  "Wuthering  Heights"  there 
is  no  idealizing  of  emotions  as  in  Radcliffe  and  Scott,  no 
poetizing  them  as  in  Rousseau  and  Chateaubriand,  no 
reticence  about  them  as  in  Thackeray ;  they  are  depicted 
as  Emily  Bronte  knew  them,  ugly  and  tempestuous,  crude 
and  close  of  kin  to  earth  and  to  its  brutes. 

The  work  of  Charlotte,  the  eldest  and  commonly  ac- 
counted the  greatest  of  the  three  Bronte  sisters, 
approaches  passion  with  the  same  fullness,  frankness  and 
freedom.  But  in  Charlotte's  stronger  mind  passion  was 
never  divorced  from  its  diviner  soul.  The  glow  of 
romance  never  deserted  it.  Where  her  sister  saw  a  beast, 
she  saw  an  earth-bound  god.  Hence  it  was  Charlotte's 
work,  it  was  "Jane  Eyre,"  that  mainly  influenced  the 
world,  that  pointed  out  the  true  value  of  emotion  as  the 
central,  the  vivifying  force  within  the  novel.  A  novel 
without  emotion  is  not  a  novel,  but  a  mere  essay  upon 
character. 

This  fact,  accepted  in  England  after  the  Bronte  up- 
heaval, has  received  fairly  general  recognition  ever 
since.  The  name  of  Trollope  naturally  occurs  to  one  as 
the  author  of  the  generation  of  the  fifties  who  gives 
passion  smallest  place.  Yet  even  in  Trollope  each  tale 
centres  around  some  love  or  some  regret,  some  waxing  or 
some  waning  fire,  some  force  extraneous  to  character 
and  playing  upon  it,  bringing  development  fronvwith- 
out. 

Hawthorne  in  America  taught  passion  the  lesson  of 
restrained  expression,  showed  it  how  to  avoid  extrava- 

206 


EMOTION 

gance  and  yet  be  strong.  George  Eliot  and  her  followers 
endeavored  to  study  and  analyze  emotion,  to  understand 
instead  of  feeling  it.  A  later  school  of  authors,  even 
more  relentless  in  their  devotion  to  science,  have  in- 
sisted on  explaining  emotion  away  altogether,  reducing  it 
to  an  expression  of  character,  a  matter  of  nerve  ganglia 
and  digestion,  a  thing  not  elemental  and  common  to  all 
the  race,  but  unique  in  each  of  us,  impossible  to  some, 
having  its  origin  in  the  peculiarities  of  the  individual. 

Whether  this  be  true  or  no,  need  not  specially  concern 
the  present  generation.  If  the  idea  that  emotion  can  be 
positively  predicted  and  mathematically  measured  by  char- 
acter, be  ever  established  as  a  scientific  fact,  we  shall  all 
cease  reading  the  novels  that  explained  it,  and  study  the 
truth  and  the  demonstration  more  compactly  in  works 
on  psychology.  For  the  present  there  is  every  sign  that 
the  public  will  long  continue  to  read  itself  into  its  stories, 
and  will  buy  novels  for  the  spell  they  exercise  on  the 
emotions,  instead  of  seeking  that  spell  in  a  direct  assault 
upon  the  nervous  ganglia. 


207 


CHAPTER  VI 

BACKGROUND 

Varying  I  know  of  no  critic  who  has  yet  come 

Usc  of  forward  to  assert  flatly  that  the  back- 

Background  ground  is  the  chief  essential  of  a  novel. 
Attention  has,  however,  been  called  by  Professor  Perry 
to  the  fact  that  two  authors  so  widely  differing  as  Steven- 
son and  Eliot  both  record  that  their  stories  sometimes 
had  origin  in  the  conception  of  a  background  or  setting. 
Into  this  scene  they  would  afterward  insert  characters, 
and  around  them  build  up  a  story,  to  express  the  mood 
or  picture  that  had  first  impressed  them.  Also,  in  this 
connection,  comes  to  mind  the  early  novelists'  oft-repeated 
assertion  that  their  books  were  intended  to  give  "pictures 
of  life,"  a  phrase  which  may  be  interpreted  in  many  ways, 
but  which  sometimes  at  least  meant  plainly  that  their  prin- 
cipal efforts  were  directed  neither  to  the  story  nor  the 
characters,  but  to  the  scenes  described.  How  else,  for 
instance,  shall  one  interpret  Smollett's  much-quoted  state- 
ment that  he  considers  a  novel  "a  large,  diffused  picture, 
comprehending  the  characters  of  life,  disposed  in  differ- 
ent groups  and  exhibited  in  various  attitudes"  ?  He  goes 
on  to  explain  that  these  groups  are  to  have  a  unifying  pur- 
pose or  plan;  but  in  his  own  actual  work  the  groups  or 
scenes  remain  always  the  chief  concern. 

So  also  our  modern  day  swarms  with  archaeological 
novels  and  tales  of  travel,  wherein  the  scene,  the  thing 

208 


BACKGROUND 

described,  stands  obviously  superior  to  the  usually  thin 
string  of  adventure  or  thinner  love  affair.  Or,  on  a  far 
higher  plane,  there  are  Hugo's  "Les  Miserables"  and 
many  of  Zola's  works,  especially  that  stupendous 
' 'Debacle."  In  these  there  is  still  some  shadow  of  a  story, 
and  human  figures  are  sharply  sketched;  but  the  whole 
is  cast  against  some  gigantic,  overwhelming  background 
of  phantasmagorial  life.  Hugo's  earlier  book  has  been 
aptly  said  to  be  the  story  of  Notre  Dame  itself.  The 
great  cathedral  towers  above  all  else  as  chief  centre  of 
the  tale,  not  the  unreal,  pitiful  little  gypsy  lass,  still  less 
the  hunchback,  or  the  frenzied  monk.  The  scene,  the 
background,  becomes  the  foreground.  "Les  Miserables" 
is  not  the  story  of  Jean  Valjean,  nor  of  Marius,  nor 
Cosette,  nor  any  one  of  the  tragic  figures  which  flash 
across  its  pages.  It  is  the  story  of  Human  Misery — just 
as  "La  Debacle"  is  the  story  of  France's  downfall  in 
1870.  The  vast  brooding  shadow,  the  black  background 
which  surrounds  the  little  people  of  the  tale,  engulfs  them, 
and  they  disappear.  Only  the  blackness  stays.  Genius 
has  given  substance  to  a  shadow,  personified  an  abstrac- 
tion; and  the  reader  grows  so  rapt  in  the  mystic  vision, 
that  he  feels  for  the  vague  "world  woe"  all  the  sympathy, 
all  the  emotion,  with  which  he  might  stoop  to  a  suffer- 
ing fellow-mortal. 

The  term  background,  therefore,  appears  a  very  elastic 
one.  In  its  strictest  sense  it  applies  only  to  the  physi- 
cal surroundings,  the  room  or  landscape,  the  stage  upon 
which  events  occur.  In  connection  with  the  novel  the 
word  is  commonly  employed  in  a  wider  artistic  meaning, 
as  covering  everything  that  helps  to  make  clear  the  life 

209 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

surrounding  the  central  figures,  the  field  of  existence 
wherein  their  action  occurs,  the  "atmosphere."  In  this 
broader  view  every  touch  which  helps  to  reveal  or  to 
impress  the  environment  is  background.  The  cry  of  the 
huckster  in  the  street,  the  heaving  of  a  huge  ocean  wave 
in  storm,  the  interpolated  soliloquy  of  the  author,  even 
the  pictures  of  minor  characters,  the  conversations  which 
they  carry  on,  the  lives  they  live,  each  and  all  of  these 
may  aid  in  bodying  forth  the  life  and  mind  of  some 
central  figure. 

There  is  also  a  third  and  cruder  use  of  the  technical 
term  background  which  makes  it  cover  everything  in  a 
novel  that  is  neither  direct  portraiture  nor  action.  In 
this  sense  not  only  the  touches  we  have  already  men- 
tioned, but  all  accompaniments,  no  matter  what  the  cause 
of  their  addition,  all  divergences,  no  matter  whither  they 
may  lead  astray,  are  charitably  accepted  as  belonging  to 
the  tale  to  which  they  come  chance-tied,  and  are  called 
background. 

If  the  word  is  accepted  in  this  loosest  sense,  back- 
ground has  found  a  place  in  fiction  ever  since  Egyptian 
days,  and  generally  speaking  has  been  fiction's  bane,  the 
curse  entailed  upon  it  by  its  freedom  of  form.  This  has 
been  shown  with  perhaps  sufficient  fullness  in  our  ex- 
amination of  early  fiction.  A  Greek  romancer  would 
deliberately  put  aside  his  story  while  he  displayed  his 
rhetorical  ability  in  the  description  of  a  storm  at  sea  or  of 
a  series  of  pictures  on  the  walls  of  a  temple.  So,  too,  the 
romancers  of  chivalry,  having  constructed  an  ornate  and 
beautifully  flowered  speech,  cared  little  where  they  de- 
layed their  tale  to  insert  it.  The  tournament  and  all  the 

210 


BACKGROUND 

court  hold  pause  while  Amadis  orates  privately  at  Oriana. 
Knights,  while  they  bleed  to  death,  deliver  addresses 
which  would  tax  not  only  the  rhetorical  skill,  but  the 
stentorian  lungs  of  a  modern  orator.  The  euphuistic  tales 
of  England  consist  chiefly  of  this  sort  of  background, 
either  of  speeches  or  of  meditations,  as  consider,  for  in- 
stance, that  "Rosalynde"  which  Shakespeare  rescued  from 
Thomas  Lodge  and  oblivion  by  the  simple  expedient  of 
cutting  away  four  fifths  of  the  excrescences. 

If  background  be  restricted  in  name  to  its  true  value 

of  emphasizing  such  of  the  necessary  environment  as  is 

unknown  or  apt  to  be  overlooked,  in  this 

Lack  of  True       better  sense  background  does  not  exist 

in  ear'y fiction-  Even  in  the  "Decara- 

eron"  there  is  no  such  effective  handling 
of  surroundings  as  modern  writers  offer.  Boccaccio's 
characters  appear  almost  wholly,  as  critics  phrase  it,  in 
vacuo.  A  high  artistic  instinct  held  the  author  so  closely 
to  his  tale  that  little  else  is  visible ;  his  people  are  outlined 
against  empty  air.  If  a  reader  knows  his  Florence  of 
the  fourteenth  century,  he  can  project  Boccaccio's  fig- 
ures against  it,  see  them  stealing  through  its  tortuous, 
shadowed  streets  or  basking  in  its  fragrant,  sun-kissed 
gardens.  But  it  scarce  occurred  to  the  writer  to  help 
portray  scenes  which  he  took  it  for  granted  all  his 
readers  knew  by  heart.  Even  when  he  placed  his  puppets 
in  foreign  regions  he  seldom  paused  for  description. 
There  is  a  suggestion  of  opulence  when  he  speaks  of 
Eastern  lands,  as  in  the  palace  of  Mitridanes  with  its 
thirty-two  arched  gates  of  entrance;  there  are  the  great 
perfumed  baths  and  other  splendors  of  the  courtesans  of 

211 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

Palermo.  But  generally  speaking  it  was  quite  impossible 
for  mediaeval  writers  to  employ  background  in  our  mod- 
ern way,  because  they  had  first  to  develop  the  historic 
sense,  the  traveller's  sense. 

This  sense  consists  in  the  recognition  that  we  do  not 
live  as  our  ancestors  did,  nor  as  our  neighbors,  sometimes 
even  our  nearest  neighbors,  do;  that  manners  and  cus- 
toms vary  widely  with  time,  with  clime,  and  even  with 
social  position;  that  externally  at  least  our  lives  are 
almost  infinitely  varied;  and  that  these  externals  react 
with  compelling  force  upon  our  inner  selves.  As  a 
natural  corollary  it  follows  that  an  author,  seeking  to 
make  us  understand  and  follow  certain  human  beings, 
must  supply  us  with  any  important  surroundings  that  we 
are  likely  to  misconceive.  The  familiar  part  of  the  back- 
ground he  may  leave  out,  as  also  the  unessential.  But 
whatever  is  at  once  essential  and  unfamiliar,  or  whatever 
we  would  not  ourselves  supply  with  sufficient  vividness, 
that  he  must  reproduce. 

Boccaccio  knew  only  of  one  life,  the  one  lived  by  the 
Italian  aristocracy  of  his  day.  Beyond  he  saw  nothing 
to  portray.  So,  too,  in  the  tales  of  chivalry,  to  whatever 
distant  lands  a  knight  might  wander,  to  the  tropics  or  the 
frozen  north,  he  passed  through  the  same  dark  woods, 
saw  the  same  build  of  castles,  talked  the  same  language. 
He  jousted  in  tournaments  in  Palestine  or  in  Ireland 
under  the  same  rules  as  in  France  or  Spain,  meeting 
enemies  who  carried  the  same  weapons  as  he,  and  thought 
the  same  identical  thoughts  of  love  and  chivalry  and 
superhuman  nonsense.  Even  in  the  rogue  stories,  which 
give  such  vivid  pictures  of  the  real  life  of  their  time, 

212 


BACKGROUND 

it  is  assumed  as  matter  of  course  that  the  reader  knows 
the  life  and  the  land  in  their  general  outline.  Only  the 
odd  individual  pictures,  peculiar  characters,  burlesqued 
scenes  from  within  the  household,  only  these  are  brought 
to  his  attention. 

It  is  the  general  custom,  however,  to  trace  to  these 
picaresque  tales  the  use  of  background  in  the  novel. 
Indeed,  in  the  sense  which  I  have  previously  suggested, 
that  of  being  disconnected  scenes  from  life,  the  pica- 
resque tales  are  all  background,  pictures  dumbly  waiting 
for  some  human  passion  to  thrill  through  and  vivify  and 
unite  them.  Landscape  also  seemed  slowly  being  pre- 
pared for  use  in  the  modern  novel.  Its  pictures  run 
through  all  the  pastorals  of  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth 
centuries,  but  are  treated  superficially,  as  if  all  vales  and 
streams  and  meadows  were  as  one,  to  be  summoned  forth 
in  the  vaguely  suggestive  language  of  fancy  and  of 
poesie,  rather  than  with  the  definiteness  and  direct  pur- 
pose of  prose. 

In  the  eighteenth  century  novel,  the  slow  growth  of 
the  sense  of  the  vast  variety  of  human  life,  with  the  conse- 
quent necessity  and  numerous  different 
rowt    o  useg  o£  backgroun^  js  verv  interesting 

before  Fielding  to  trace.  Madame  Lafayette's  heroine  in 
the  "Princess  of  Cleves"  is  portrayed 
amid  an  elaborately  detailed  environment  of  court  in- 
trigue, which  gives  strongly  the  sense  of  the  artificiality 
and  conventionality  of  life  as  known  to  the  heroine.  But 
this  dazzling  world  is  not  depicted  as  influencing  or  mold- 
ing the  young  princess.  It  constrains  her  daily  actions, 
but  never  her  character,  which  is  presented  as  previously 

213 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

fully  formed  and  fixed  by  her  mother's  training;  never 
htr  emotions,  which  are  copies  of  Madame  Lafayette's 
own  personal  feelings;  never  her  fate,  which  she  herself 
decides.  Historically  the  tale  is  given  as  happening  over 
a  century  before  the  writer's  time,  but  the  manners,  the 
thought,  even  the  costumes,  are  of  her  own  day. 

In  England  much  true  sense  of  background  and  its 
value  was  developed  by  the  essayists  of  Queen  Anne's 
age.  The  character  drawing  of  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley 
depends  very  largely  upon  the  country  setting  and  the 
country  neighbors.  What  would  Sir  Roger  be  without 
Will  Wimble?  How  much  is  he  vivified  by  the  simple 
trust  placed  upon  him  by  the  innkeeper  in  the  matter  of 
the  "Saracen's  head"?  Defoe,  on  the  other  hand,  em- 
ployed background  not  for  character,  but  for  verisimili- 
tude. Far  more  strongly  than  the  earlier  picaresque 
wanderer  do  his  heroes  insist  upon  giving  us  detail.  In 
Defoe  this  detail  is  often  wholly  commonplace,  wholly 
uninteresting  in  itself;  but  how  startlingly  close  it  takes 
us  into  the  life  and  confidence  of  the  hero.  We  all  know 
Crusoe,  and  we  may  know  Colonel  Jacque,  Moll  Flanders, 
the  unnamed  draper  of  the  Plague,  or  even  Bob  Avery, 
Jonathan  Wild  or  Captain  Singleton,  as  we  know  few 
other  people  in  or  out  of  books.  Of  background  in  its 
romantic  sense,  the  use  of  landscape  and  description, 
Defoe  had  no  conception  whatsoever. 

Richardson's  background  is  of  yet  another  type.  In 
"Pamela"  the  servants  and  other  supernumeraries  sur- 
rounding the  heroine  are  introduced,  apparently,  only  that 
they  may  talk  to  her.  They  threaten  her,  and  are  abashed 
by  her  tremendous  purity ;  or  they  admire  and  praise  her 

214 


BACKGROUND 

to  her  face — at  least  she  says  they  do — with  a  fullness 
and  unblushing  enthusiasm,  which  she  retails  quite  as 
fully  and  unblushingly.  One  thus  gets  a  remarkably  com- 
plete idea,  if  not  directly  of  the  heroine,  of  the  impression 
she  made  upon  other  folk,  an  impression  the  reader  in- 
stinctively adopts  likewise.  The  value  of  this  effect  is 
here  very  notable.  The  reader  becomes,  as  it  were,  a 
neighbor  of  Pamela,  at  home  amid  the  neighborhood 
gossip  and  influenced  by  it  almost  unconsciously,  as  in  life. 

In  scenic  description  "Pamela"  is  lacking.  The  house 
of  Mr.  B.  is  never  brought  forward  in  fuller  detail 
than  as  a  Bedfordshire  manor  house.  The  secluded  place 
to  which  the  trusting  maid  is  afterward  carried  receives 
a  more  effective  though  merely  poetic  description.  "We 
entered  the  Court-yard  of  this -handsome,  large,  old  and 
lonely  Mansion,  that  looks  made  for  Solitude  and  Mis- 
chief, as  I  thought,  by  its  Appearance,  with  all  its  brown 
nodding  Horrors  of  lofty  Elms  and  Pines  about  it." 
Though  brief,  this  is  the  fullest  descriptive  passage  in  the 
story,  and  important  for  its  "suggestiveness."  The  lonely 
Mansion  with  its  nodding  Pines  stands  as  parent  to  all 
the  future  homes  of  "Horrors"  wherein  persecuted  hero- 
ines were  to  find  nature  harmonizing  with  their  own 
sorely  tried  emotions. 

Fielding  reveals  a  distinct  personal  feeling  for  land- 
scape.   He  speaks  sometimes  with  enthusiasm  of  hillside    f 
paths   and   wide-spreading   views.      He  N< 
Poetry  and  gives    us    a    page-long    description    of 

Science  in  M      Allworthy's  demesne,  a  purelv  ex- 

Background  .   J 

tnnsic  painting,  the  details  of  which  have 

no  connection  with  the  story.    He  even  has  some  poetic 

215 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

thought  of  using  nature  in  harmony  with  the  feelings  of 
his  characters.  Or  at  least  when  that  harmony  exists  he 
feels  and  expresses  it. 

In  considering  Fielding's  use  of  minor  characters,  one 
scarcely  feels  justified  in  calling  them  part  of  his  back- 
ground at  all.  They  are  too  fully  outlined;  they  stand 
out  as  sharply  as  the  principals.  Unlike  Richardson's 
shadowy  servants  in  "Pamela,"  they  are  analyzed  and 
explained  and  understood.  The  difference  is  funda- 
mental. Richardson  is  telling  the  story  of  a  passion, 
giving  a  picture  of  a  human  heart.  The  outer  physical 
life  is  hardly  noted  as  it  passes  by.  Fielding  tells  a  tale 
of  intrigue,  gives  a  broad  picture  of  the  actual,  external 
world.  Hence  the  hero  is  not  the  only  figure  seen;  he 
is  not  necessarily  even  the  central  figure,  as  witness 
"Joseph  Andrews."  In  Fielding's  work  each  character, 
as  he  appears,  stands  for  himself,  is  the  temporary  focus 
of  a  temporary  scene.  His  actions  are  not  intended  to 
make  us  understand  the  hero,  but  to  reveal  himself.  In 
other  words,  if  the  novel  is  to  be  a  picture  of  human 
life  in  general  rather  than  of  a  few  closely  connected  indi- 
viduals in  particular,  then  the  words  background  and 
foreground  lose  their  application  to  it.  Fielding  is  a 
traveller  who,  approaching  object  after  object,  examines 
each  more  or  less  minutely  according  as  he  finds  it  worth 
while.  Richardson  stands  still,  his  thoughts  all  centred 
on  a  single  view.  The  attitude  marks  the  difference  be- 
tween the  student  and  the  poet,  the  scientist  and  the 
artist. 

In  Smollett  this  becomes  even  more  apparent.  Field- 
ing's dramatic  training  made  him  cling  to  his  plot, 

216 


BACKGROUND 

and  thus  his  work  retains  a  distinct  unity,  unusual  in 

"pictures  of  life."    Each  character  is  shown  in  his  rela- 

tion to  the  plot,  and  that  relation  is  em- 

Background  in     phasized  as  the  reason  for  his  introduc- 

*  But  when'  aS  in  Smollett>  the  Plot 


almost  disappears  along  with  the  cen- 
tralized artistic  view,  then  the  pictures  of  life  become 
frankly  heterogeneous.  The  background,  if  we  choose 
still  to  call  it  such,  becomes  all  there  is  to  see.  The  novel 
is  very  close  to  disbanding  into  its  pristine  atoms  of  anec- 
dote, character  sketch,  and  scenic  description. 

In  scenes  purely  descriptive  Smollett  often  reaches  a 
higher  altitude  than  any  of  his  predecessors.  He  deals 
with  sea  storms  in  a  manner  to  recall  the  best  of  the 
Greek  rhetoricians.  Indeed,  to  modern  taste  he  outdoes 
the  ancients;  Greek  rhetoric  lacks  human  feeling,  while 
Smollett's  tempests  deal  not  only  with  the  winds  and 
waves,  but  with  the  one  human  soul  standing  lone  amidst 
their  fury,  standing  as  Smollett  himself  had  stood,  de- 
fying death  in  every  blast.  The  technical  point  is  here 
important.  It  might  almost  be  broadened  into  a  general 
assertion  that  a  description  which  stands  by  itself  and 
ignores  any  human  presence  is  ineffective.  To  be  strong, 
a  description  must  attach  itself  to  a  human  being  and 
give  his  impressions.  Readers  can  then  see  with  the 
character's  eyes,  accept  his  emotions  as  their  own,  and 
so  live  through  the  scene,  almost  as  bodily  participants. 

As  Smollett  advanced  in  years  his  power  of  description 
increased  with  his  other  literary  qualities,  while  his,  nat- 
ural endowments,  ingenuity,  imagination,  freshrfess  of 
knowledge  and  of  view,  decreased.  Hence,  while  "Sir 

217 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

Launcelot  Greaves"  has  been  called  his  poorest  novel,  it 
presents  some  of  his  finest  scenic  effects.  And  "Hum- 
phrey Clinker,"  his  last  work,  which  is  scarce  a  novel  at 
all  in  the  element  of  plot,  contains  not  only  his  best  char- 
acter work,  but  the  most  carefully  outlined  and  effective 
background  that  had  yet  appeared  in  fiction.  The  story 
is  of  an  English  family  travelling  from  town  to  town 
for  pleasure  and  for  health.  They  write  letters  to  their 
friends,  giving  impressions  of  each  new  place.  Now  it 
is  Matthew  Bramble,  the  whimsical,  hot-headed  squire, 
who  finds  "nothing  but  disappointment  at  Bath,"  and 
sarcastically  describes  its  "boasted  improvements  in  archi- 
tecture." Now  it  is  his  young  niece,  Lydia,  who  writes, 
"Bath  is  to  me  a  new  world — all  is  gaiety,  good  humor 
and  diversion."  Or  again  it  is  his  sister's  maid,  who  has 
"seen  all  the  fine  shows  of  Bath ;  the  prades,  the  squires, 
and  the  circlis,  the  crashit,  the  hotogon,  and  Bloody  Build- 
ings and  Harry  King's  row;  and  I  have  been  twice  in 
the  bath  with  mistress,  and  n'ar  a  smoak  upon  our  backs, 
hussy."  Thus  the  same  spot  or  incident  is  described  from 
various  standpoints,  and  while  this  gives  excellent  oppor- 
tunity for  emphasizing  character  by  showing  what  ap- 
peals to  each,  it  also  displays  each  new  town  itself 
in  changing  outlook,  enlivened  always  by  the  human 
view. 

Professor  Cross  has  called  attention  to  the  fact  that  in 
Smollett  we  have  the  earliest  of  those  scenes  of  super- 
natural terror  which  dominate  the  Gothic 
Sympathetic  T        .  .     . 

Background          romance.      In    the    use    of    description, 

also,  may  Smollett  be  regarded  as  the 
ancestor  of   this   form   of   fiction.     However   extrava- 

218 


BACKGROUND 

gant  the  romance  of  terror  became  in  some  respects, 
there  can  be  no  doubt  that  its  use  of  landscape  was  an 
advance  in  art,  almost  a  revelation.  Therein  to  the  artist 
lies  the  value  of  Horace  Walpole's  dilettante  effort,  "The, 
Castle  of  Otranto^  The  morbid,  hypersensitive  aesthete 
felt  strongly  the  need"  of  sympathy  between  content  and 
form,  between  emotions  and  their  outward  scenic  sur- 
roundings. This  point,  which  had  been  vaguely  appreci- 
ated by  Fielding,  was  hypercritically  clear  to  Walpole. 
He  wrote  "Otranto,"  as  he  himself  explains,  partly  in  ex- 
pression of  his  love  of  the  remote.  He  delighted  in  old 
ruined  castles  and  the  mystery  surrounding  them.  He 
was  an  antiquarian  student,  and  gathered  about  him  relics 
of  old  furniture  and  dress,  personal  things  which  re- 
newed the  personality  of  owners  long  departed.  He 
summoned  back  those  owners,  and  placing  them  in  sombre 
castles,  made  them  reenact  the  ghostly  suggestions  that 
lingered  around  their  relics. 

This  sense  of  harmony  was  carried  still  further  by  Mrs. 
Radcliffe,  who  has  indeed  been  somewhat  loosely  said 
to  have  introduced  landscape  into  the  novel.  It  existed, 
as  I  have  pointed  out,  before;  but  only  with  her  did  it 
rise  to  its  full  height  of  importance,  its  full  poetic  value 
of  sympathy  with,  and  interpretation  of,  character  and 
story.  Thus  in  "Udolpho"  the  opening  pages  portray 
scenes  of  peace  and  idyllic  happiness  consonant  with  the 
youth  and  innocence  of  the  heroine.  As  her  mind  be- 
comes tempest-tossed,  she  is  removed  to  gloomy  land- 
scapes. The  villain's  castle  is  perched  among  Alpine 
mountains,  its  roadway  winds  past  beetling  crags  and 
howling  torrents.  It  is  almost  a  pity  to  suggest  that  any- 

219 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

thing  so  poetic  as  this,  is  on  the  other  hand  unconvinc- 
ing and  unreal.  Events  in  life  most  unsympathetically 
refuse  to  follow  the  impulses  of  landscape.  Moreover 
Mrs.  Radcliffe's  landscapes  are  constructed  in  the  light 
of  sentiment,  instead  of  experience.  Gentlemen  who 
really  dwell  in  ruined  castles  among  secluded  mountains, 
are  much  more  apt  to  develop  into  strong  lunged,  loud 
and  simple  chamois  hunters,  than  into  silent,  dark  and 
secret  malefactors. 

The  continental  novel  had  turned  to  descriptions  of 
nature  even  before  Mrs.  Radcliffe's  work.  Rousseau's 
"New  Heloise"  was  the  prototype  of  a  thousand  works 
in  which  natural  scenery  was  ecstatically  admired.  Some- 
thing in  the  line  of  the  poetic  harmonizing  of  scene  and 
event,  was  also  attempted.  But  mainly  the  continental 
use  of  nature  took  a  subjective  bent.  The  moody  and 
meditative  hero  was  presented  as  viewing  all  landscape 
through  the  medium  of  his  own  emotions.  When  he  was 
sad,  he  would  pluck  you  gloom  from  the  sunniest  hill- 
side; or,  being  torpidly  disgusted,  he  would  find  stagna- 
tion in  the  lightning.  The  use  of  nature  for  romantic  and 
unreal  effects  could  scarcely  extend  further  than  these 
impassioned  efforts  which,  both  in  France  and  England, 
date  from  the  close  of  the  eighteenth  century. 

In  the  nineteenth  century  Scott,  the  poet  turned  novel- 
ist, the  true  and  harmonious  poet  with  an  instinctive  sense 
of  values  and  proportions,  arose  to  reduce  extravagance 
within  control,  and  direct  scenery  to  its  really  subordinate 
position.  As  a  poet,  however,  Scott  considered  scenery 
interesting  enough  to  stand  alone,  and  so  he  dwelt  upon 
its  beauties  sometimes  through  entire  pages,  unrelieved 

220 


BACKGROUND 

by  any  human  presence.  His  descriptions  are  undeni- 
ably tedious  at  times. 

Full  perfection  of  scenic  effect  was  scarcely  reached 
until  Cooper  appeared.  Our  "American  Scott,"  the  first 
great  novelist  of  sea  and  wilderness,  the  passionate  lover 
of  wave  and  sky  and  wood,  carried  every  reader  away 
with  him  into  an  imaginary  land  of  wonder,  of  beauty, 
and  of  mystery  wherein  it  is  good  to  have  lived  when 
one  was  young.  Cooper  offers  us  no  characters  but  such 
as  are  false  or  flimsy;  he  tells  no  single  tale  that  unites 
probability  with  interest;  but  he  has  made  the  American 
wilderness  to  live  forever  in  the  minds  of  men.  His 
background  was  of  the  world  he  knew  and  loved. 

In  later  days  there  has  been  little  new  to  record  in  the 
employ  of  landscape.  Hawthorne  showed  us  the  per- 
fection of  „  that  poetical,  symbolic  use  of  scenery  which 
the  Gothic  romance  originated.  Thomas  Hardy  recently, 
with  a  strange,  half-pagan  intensity,  has  insisted  on  the 
actual  influence  of  landscape  in  molding  the  human  char- 
acter and  influencing  the  passions.  His  work  has  made 
a  marked  impression  upon  our  day. 

Returning  to  consider  the  larger  questions  of  back- 
ground after  Smollett,  the  English  "novel  of  manners"  is 
usually  regarded  as  beginning  with  Miss 
N  e  .  Burney.  The  descriptive  designation  in- 

Manners  dicates  the  importance  that  background 

assumed  in  this  new  form.  The  man- 
ners and  posturings  of  society  were  to  be  depicted.  In 
Miss  Burney's  works  these  always  remain  a  mere  back- 
ground, against  which  is  projected  the  attractive  central 
figure  of  the  real  and  simple  heroine.  As  both  this  back- 

221 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE.  NOVEL 

ground  and  this  foreground  were  new  to  the  public,  it  is 
hard  to  determine  to  which  of  the  novelties  Miss  Burney's 
remarkable  fame  was  principally  due. 

So  noted  a  critic  as  Mr.  Traill  ascribes  her  success  em- 
phatically to  the  "manners"  she  portrays;  and  he  may 
easily  be  right.  Yet  to  find  a  work  given  simply  and 
solely  to  these  "manners,"  or  even  dependent  on  them  so 
largely  as  Smollett  depended  on  his  more  varied  "pictures 
of  life,"  one  must  look  far  beyond  Miss  Burney's  day. 
This  particular  source  of  her  success  certainly  was  not 
seized  upon  and  sharply  centralized  by  her  contemporary 
rivals.  Miss  Edgeworth's  novels  of  London  life  also  em- 
ploy the  background  of  society,  but  keep  it  in  subordina- 
tion, while  she  deals  chiefly  with  moral  lessons  and  re- 
sisted passions.  Miss  Austen,  the  "novelist  of  manners" 
par  excellence,  has  always  her  story  to  tell,  and  carefully 
keeps  in  the  centre  of  vision  a  heroine,  who  has  inner  as 
well  as  outer  qualities  to  be  presented,  has  character  even 
more  than  manners. 

Thus  the  novel  of  manners,  in  those  early  days  at  least, 
I  took  its  title  rather  superficially  from  an  element  which, 
I  in  most  examples  of  the  class,  was  subsidiary  and  per- 
»  haps  accidental.  If  the  name  were  confined  to  works 
which  chose  manners  as  their  main  study  and  frankly 
subordinated  or  neglected  other  points,  then  the  first 
genuine  work  of  the  kind  would  be  that  already  mentioned 
production  of  EgaaJJJfe  in  London."  There  at  least 
"Society"  offers  itself  unadorned.  Plot,  character,  emo- 
tion, let  us  hope  verisimilitude  as  well,  are  scornfully 
thrust  out  of  doors. 

"Life  in  London"  carries  us  on  to  "Pickwick  Papers," 

222 


BACKGROUND 

which  at  first  with  equal  frankness  subordinated  litera- 
ture to  business.  It  was  started  to  supply  text  matter, 
background,  for  a  series  of  illustrations  of  sporting  life. 
Fortunately  for  literature  if  not  for  pictorial  art,  the  il- 
lustrator died  and  left  the  scheme  in  the  writer's  hands. 
Dickens,  promptly  inverting  the  scheme,  made  the  illus- 
trations in  their  turn  conform  to  the  text  and  to  the  scenes 
of  "manners."  By  degrees  he  added  humor,  character 
study,  and  at  length  a  semblance  of  a  plot.  If  ever  novel 
"grew,"  it  was  this  one,  and  if  ever  characters  slowly 
shaped  themselves  from  their  background,  dominated  it, 
dismissed  it,  triumphed  over  it,  they  were  Mr.  Pickwick 
and  Sam  Weller. 

About  this  time  there  arose  among  English  novelists 

another  style  of  setting,  which  produced  what  has  been 

called  the  political  novel.    This  is  a  form 

Political  and         jn  which  the  characters  all  talk  politics, 

think'  live'  eat  and  sleep  P°litics-  The 
hero  is  either  a  Prime  Minister  or  anx- 
ious to  become  one,  and  the  fate  of  the  nation  is  usually 
supposed  to  hang  upon  his  measures.  This  form  might 
of  course  be  ranked  under  the  general  heading  of  the  pur- 
pose novel,  which  has  been  already  discussed.  Only  the 
importance  of  Disraeli,  the  originator  of  the  political 
novel,  and  the  continued  vogue  the  form  has  enjoyed 
among  English  statesmen — chiefly  of  the  amateur  type — 
have  led  to  its  separation  as  a  special  form.  What  has 
been  said  of  other  purpose  novels  in  their  relation  to  veri- 
similitude, applies  equally  to  it.  If  the  political  chatter 
remains  background,  it  may  be  extremely  effective  as 
showing  the  atmosphere  amid  which  some  people  live ;  if 

223 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

political  doctrines  are  so  strenuously  advanced  as  to  dis- 
tort the  more  essential  elements  of  the  story,  the  work 
becomes  an  essay  to  be  judged  by  the  essay's  laws.1 

So,  too,  with  the  theological  novel,  which  first  came 
notably  into  vogue  with  Kingsley's  "Hypatia."  Theology 
as  a  background — and  in  Kingsley's  masterpiece  few 
would  call  it  more — may  be  excellent.  Moreover  if  the 
underlying  spirit  consist  of  religion  rather  than  theology, 
belief  rather  than  mere  doctrine,  it  need  not  be  treated 
controversially  as  trying  to  uphold  any  sect,  but  emotion- 
ally as  dominating  some  character,  some  life.  In  such  as- 
pect, of  course,  it  may  become  a  very  valuable  "motive" 
for  an  intense  tale.  "Hypatia,"  viewed  in  this  light,  is  a 
most  noble  work.  The  emotional  deeps  of  religious  ex- 
perience which  it  so  vividly  portrays,  can  be  followed 
with  entire  ignorance  of  the  doctrinal  purpose.  The  lat- 
ter, as  is  now  well  known,  was  to  uphold  the  cause  of  the 
Church  of  England  against  Catholicism,  and  of  "broad 
church"  against  "high  church"  views.  So  carefully,  how- 
ever, was  this  aim  kept  subordinate,  that  few  beyond 
those  specially  interested  ever  note  the  controversial 
points,  and  the  impress  of  the  work  upon  the  general  pub- 
lic has  been  very  far  from  what  Kingsley  must  have 

'Another  dangerous  tendency  in  the  political  novel  lies  in  the 
prominent  position  usually  given  its  hero.  The  novel  is  intended 
to  deal  with  ordinary  life,  so  that  each  reader  may  find  something 
of  himself  reflected  in  its  central  figures.  A  Prime  Minister  of 
England  comes  so  near  to  being  a  king,  that  tales  about  him  seem 
to  be  harking  back  to  the  old  days  of  the  superhuman,  the  times 
when  only  kings  and  knights  were  fit  subjects  for  any  literary 
mention.  The  same  criticism  applies  to  the  handling  of  the 
President  of  the  United  States,  though  one  or  two  recent  novels 
have  touched  that  high  office  rather  effectively,  by  dealing  with  its 
incumbent  only  in  his  personal  relations  as  a  man. 

224 


BACKGROUND 

wished.  From  which  one  may  perhaps  take  warning  that 
it  is  safer  to  label  theological  works  as  such,  and  to  cast 
them  in  some  stricter,  more  synthetic  form  of  argument. 

In  this  brief  review  I  have  left  until  the  last  those 
forms  of  the  novel  in  which  background  assumes  what 
seems  its  chief  legitimate  importance. 
Novel  of  ^*"S  1S  m  tales  which  deal  with  some 

Locality  period,  some  place,  or  some  race  of  peo- 

_pje.  unfamiliar  to  the  reader.  In  hear- 
ing of  our  own  times,  we  unconsciously  supply  out  of  our 
own  experience  a  great  deal  of  the  necessary  setting.  For 
our  own  locality  we  supply  that  subtler,  completer,  more 
enveloping  medium,  the  "atmosphere."  Of  our  own  race 
we  know  the  usual  characteristics.  If  any  or  all  these 
aids  to  comprehension  desert  us,  the  author  has  special 
difficulties' to  face;  he  must  make  good  the  deficiency. 
Hence  there  arise  three  slightly  specialized  forms  requir- 
ing special  treatment.  The  "historic  novel"  treats  of 
other  times,  and  the  "local  novel"  depicts  some  little 
known  locality,  striving  to  emphasize  its  peculiarities.  As 
to  the  third  form,  which  seeks  to  reveal  the  outlook  of 
some  wholly  different  race,  such  as  to  us  would  be  the 
Hindus  or  Japanese,  this  presents  so  many  obvious  diffi- 
culties both  of  sure  understanding  on  the  author's  part 
and  sympathetic  appreciation  and  enjoyment  on  the 
reader's,  that  not  until  the  present  generation  have  any 
serious  attempts  been  made  in  its  direction. 

The  novel  of  locality,  the  tale,  that  is,  which  delib- 
erately draws  into  itself  something  of  the  purpose  of 
geography,  of  travel,  and  aims  to  inform  the  world  of 
readers  as  to  the  peculiarities  of  some  scarce  known  dis- 

225 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

trict,  or  which  in  a  higher  view  aims  to  show  how  human 
character  and  human  passion  in  that  district  develop  and 
express  themselves  along  peculiar  lines,  "life  modified  by 
environment,"  this  form  of  novel  begins  with  Miss  Edge- 
worth's  Irish  stories.  Of  course  there  had  been  "trav- 
ellers' tales"  and  travelling  heroes  before.  Defoe's  ad- 
venturers wandered  everywhere;  but  to  every  land  they 
brought,  and  in  every  clime  they  found,  the  habits  and 
the  thoughts  of  English  tradesmen.  Voltaire's  "Candide" 
searched  the  entire  world,  but  found  human  nature  every- 
where the  same.  Johnson's  "Rasselas"  explored  the 
deeps  of  Africa,  but  learned  there  only  what  the  author's 
London  meditations  taught. 

Miss  Edgeworth  was  an  originator.  She  was  familiar 
with  a  place  and  people  which  most  of  her  readers  did  not 
know;  she  was  aware  of  the  latter's  lack  of  knowledge; 
and  she  deliberately  set  herself  to  inform  them.  Thus 
began  the  novel  of  locality.  Lady  Morgan,  Banim,  Grif- 
fin, Lover,  and  a  dozen  others  followed  Miss  Edgeworth 
in  delineating  Irish  life.  Mrs.  Hamilton,  Scott,  Hogg, 
Gait,  and  their  successors  did  the  same  for  Scotland. 
Turgenev  caught  the  idea,  and  revealed  the  Russian  wil- 
derness and  the  Russian  peasants'  suffering,  brought  their 
agony  home  not  only  to  intellectual  Europe  but  to  the 
Russian  autocracy,  and  secured  the  freedom  of  the  serf. 
Cooper  supplied  to  generations  of  Europeans  their  dis- 
torted ideas  about  American  life.  Balzac  wrote  "A  Pas- 
sion of  the  Desert." 

Following  these  broad  pictures  sketched  from  an  en- 
tire country,  came  the  modern  studies  of  narrower  dis- 
tricts, drawn  with  a  closer  view,  Blackmore's  "Lorna 

226 


BACKGROUND 

Doone,"  Hardy's  Wessex  Tales,  Barrie's  single  Scottish 
village.  The  genuinely  local  novel  has  been  far  more  de- 
veloped in  England  than  elsewhere  in  Europe.  In  France 
almost  everything  has  a  Parisian  tendency,  a  metropoli- 
tan outlook,  while  in  the  other  European  countries  the 
national  tale  still  continues  more  important  than  the  nar- 
rower form. 

The  chief  development  of  the  novel  of  locality,  how- 
ever, has  naturally  taken  place  in  America.  Our  land 
presents  no  sharp  separation  of  mutually  interested 
classes,  to  give  perennial  attraction  to  sketches  of  a  sin- 
gle town ;  but  it  presents  a  far  wider  variance  of  scene 
and  life  and  character  than  England ;  and  it  has  escaped 
the  centralizing  tendency  of  France.  Hence  in  the  period 
since  the  Civil  War  this  form  of  novel  has  here  advanced 
almost  to  perfection.  What  Bret  Harte  did  for  the  West- 
ern frontier,  Cable  has  done  for  Louisiana,  and  Miss 
Wilkins  for  the  New  England  country  life.  Howells  has 
sung  the  Iliad  of  the  Boston  merchant.  One  might  run 
on  with  the  list  indefinitely.  Scarce  a  State  but  has  its 
careful  studious  "photographer" ;  scarce  a  form  of  Amer- 
ican life  but  has  been  put  honestly  on  record  in  a  story. 

The  technique  of  this  form  of  novel  must  obviously 
take  note  of  both  the  narrowed  outlook  and  the  compli- 
cated purpose.  The  novelist  of  locality  seeks  not  only  to 
interest  the  general  public  with  a  story ;  he  can  not  simply 
present  characters  which  readers  know  from  experience, 
depict  passions  which  they  recognize  as  their  own.  He 
must  lead  them  beyond  experience,  convince  them  of  that 
which  they  can  not  measure  for  themselves.  He  must 
therefore  in  his  work  discriminate  carefully  between  such 

227 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

acts  and  feelings  as  are  individual  and  hence  universal, 
and  such  as  are  more  nearly  sectional.  The  former  he 
may  trust  his  readers  to  understand.  The  latter  he  must 
dwell  upon,  showing  what  there  is  in  the  locality  to  cause 
them,  what  makes  them  true  though  unusual.  This  prob- 
lem of  selection  suggests  why  the  native  of  a  district  is 
not  always  its  best  historian,  either  in  fact  or  fiction. 
What  is  most  peculiar,  may  well  seem  to  him  most  com- 
monplace ;  and  what  is  most  noteworthy,  be  most  ignored. 
Only  by  distance  can  one  get  a  true  perspective.  Only 
the  native  who  has  been  long  away  and  learned  a  larger 
world,  can  understand  how  to  present  to  that  larger  world 
the  differences  of  his  lesser  one.  Even  then  love  may 
prevent  him  seeing  the  harsher  truths  about  his  home,  or 
loyalty  restrain  him  from  confessing  them. 

Beyond  these  difficulties,  granting  that  the  novelist 
sees  a  locality  truthfully  and  broadly,  and  that  he  holds 
his  general  public  interested,  satisfied,  and  convinced,  be- 
yond there  lie  other  trials.  He  must  satisfy  the  people 
whom  he  claims  to  represent.  Local  dignity  is  easily  in- 
sulted, as  Miss  Wilkins  has  found  in  New  England  to 
her  cost ;  and  who  shall  learn  from  the  work  of  the  local 
novelist,  if  not  the  inhabitants  of  the  locality  itself?  Nay, 
if  they  reject  his  picture,  how  shall  the  world  be  brought 
to  accept  it,  and  the  writer  gather  personal  profit?  On 
the  other  hand,  he  who  flatters,  misrepresents.  He  is  no 
longer  the  historian  but  the  romancer.  He  is  describing 
an  imaginary  not  a  real  community.  He  has  returned  to 
the  art  of  Johnson  and  Voltaire.  A  great  novelist  he 
may  be,  but  a  novelist  of  locality  he  is  not;  and  the  pub- 
lic will  soon  pierce  his  false  pretense. 

228 


BACKGROUND 

The  historic  novelist  faces  problems  which,  while  sim- 
ilar to  these,  are  not  wholly  the  same.    If  he  blacken  the 
truth  of  history,  he  will  be  met  by  no 

body  of  indignant  townsfolk  with  pro- 
Historic  : 
Novel                   testing  mayor  and  church  elders  at  their 

head,  all  eager  to  repudiate  him.  His 
opponents  at  worst — or  at  best — will  only  be  learned  his- 
torians against  whom  he  can  argue  in  the  newspapers, 
while,  as  to  which  side  is  right,  the  public  will  know  little 
and  care  not  at  all.  The  past  has  escaped  forever  from 
our  control ;  the  present,  we  are  now  at  work  on,  molding 
it  under  our  hands.  Hence  in  our  general  dealing  with 
old  days  we  exact  no  such  reliability  of  information,  no 
such  businesslike  accuracy  of  statement  and  of  figures, 
as  we  do  for  present  matters.  For  this  reason  the  past 
has  always  Remained  the  field  in  which  the  romancer,  as 
distinguished  from  the  realist,  loves  best  to  ramble.  The 
romance  set  in  some  distant  place  has  been  rare  since  the 
days  of  Paltock  and  St.  Pierre;  for  modern  inventions 
have  brought  the  far-off  near,  and  left  few  secret  corners 
to  our  narrowing  world.  But  the  romance  set  in  distant 
time  continues  to  hold  its  own. 

No  sharp  distinction,  however,  has  ever  been  drawn 
between  the  romance  of  history  and  what  ought  in  techni- 
cal accuracy  be  meant  by  the  "historic  novel":  that  is, 
the  simple,  human  story  placed  amid  the  real  history  and 
mode  of  living  of  some  former  day.  We  still  carelessly 
class  under  a  single  title  such  fantasies  as  Dumas'  tale  of 
the  iron  mask,  which  gives  to  history  a  turn  wholly  false ; 
such  laborious  studies  as  Doyle's  "White  Company," 
which  gives  it  a  setting  wholly  true;  and  such  works  as 

229 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

Miss  Miihlbach's,  which  are  largely  history  itself,  though 
sometimes  history  mistold. 

Since  the  name  is  so  loosely  applied,  the  origin  of  the 
historic  novel  can  scarcely  be  associated  with  an  exact 
time  or  man.  What  is  meant  by  the  common  statement 
that  the  form  began  with  Scott  is  only  that  he  was  the 
first  to  unite  a  real  knowledge  of  history  with  a  real 
knowledge  of  story  telling  and  a  little  tact,  wherewith  so 
to  interweave  the  two  as  to  produce  an  impression  of 
reality.  This  impression  Scott  certainly  conveyed  to  his 
own  generation,  however  we  may  criticise  him  in  ours. 
If  the  "history"  of  a  tale  is  to  be  tested  simply  by  its  nom- 
inal time,  by  the  fact  that  it  seeks  this  freedom  from 
acute  criticism  that  is  gained  by  placing  events  in  an  age 
other  than  the  present,  the  great  Sir  Walter  was  by  no 
means  the  first  to  grasp  at  this.  It  was  a  trick  known 
even  to  Greek  romance.  It  was  what  Madame  Lafayette 
desired  when  she  narrated  her  own  idealized  story  as  hap- 
pening at  the  court  of  Henry  II.  It  is  what  Mr.  Hope  at- 
tains when,  as  in  the  "Prisoner  of  Zenda,"  he  revives  the 
manners,  the  ideals,  and  even  the  swordplay,  of  mediaeval 
days,  and  places  them  in  an  imaginary  European  country 
of  to-day. 

Or  if  our  test  be  merely  the  use  of  great  historic  names, 
then  also  there  were  countless  such  novels  before  Scott. 
Indeed  the  favorite  French  fiction  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury was  that  which  told  of  Cyrus  the  Great  of  Persia,  or 
of  Cleopatra,  or  Alexander,  or  some  other  personage 
whose  well-known  cognomen  might  catch  the  casual  eye. 
Once  beyond  the  title  page,  these  tales  freed  themselves 
wholly  from  any  solicitude  as  to  the  truth  about  their 

230 


BACKGROUND 

patronym,  usually  even  from  any  acquaintance  with  that 
truth.  Prevost  as  late  as  1732  selects  for  a  hero  an 
imaginary  illegitimate  son  of  Oliver  Cromwell,  and  paints 
the  mighty  Protector  as  a  puerile  figure  recognizable  only 
by  the  name  and  rank.  In  England,  the  half-century  be- 
tween Richardson  and  Scott  produced  scores  and  scores 
of  tales  whose  titles  talked  of  ancient  kings. 

Not  even  the  effort  to  give  some  genuine  historic  in- 
struction was  new  with  Scott.  It  had  been  rather  ig- 
norantly  attempted  by  several  of  the  earlier  writers,  nota- 
bly Miss  Porter  in  her  "Scottish  Chiefs."  It  had  been 
accomplished  with  true  antiquarian  precision  by  Scott's 
friend  Mr.  Strutt  in  his  "Queen-hoo  Hall,"  a  book  which 
the  greater  author  completed  on  his  friend's  death.  What 
Scott  did  was  to  combine  all  these  values  with  that  other 
value,  an  interesting  story. 

Since  his  time  the  historic  novel  has  divided  itself  quite 
clearly  into  the  three  classes  I  have  suggested.  Their 
separate  value  and  need  of  separate  names  can  best  be 
appreciated  by  studying  their  differences.  First  and  most 
numerous  come  the  romances,  seeking  only  the  freedom 
of  the  past  wherein  to  write  of  mighty  deeds  and  over- 
whelming passions.  With  the  actual  life  of  a  special 
period  or  its  important  events,  these  tales  have  small  con- 
cern. Great  historic  leaders  are  used  only  as  figure  heads, 
hollow  puppets  revolving  around  the  romantic  youth  and 
maiden.  The  second  class  are  the  typical  novels,  which, 
corresponding  to  the  novels  of  locality,  deal  earnestly  and 
honestly  with  the  human  life  of  a  bygone  day.  They  try 
to  see  clearly  the  ordinary  person  of  that  age,  marking 
both  in  character  and  passion  the  differences  and  resem- 

231 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

blances,  compared  with  our  modern  type.  Kings  and 
celebrities  are  either  kept  in  vaguest  background  or  else 
treated  from  the  human  standpoint,  depicted  not  in  their 
acts  of  prominence  but  in  the  trivial  detail  of  daily  life. 
From  this  personal  side  they  may  even  be  closely  studied 
and  made  central  figures,  as  is  so  well  done  in  "Richard 
Yea-and-nay,"  or  so  picturesquely  in  Weyman's  Henry  of 
Navarre.  Then  thirdly  there  is  what  might  be  called 
storified  history,  consisting  of  all  the-taies  that  "really 'have 
the  teaching  of  history  as  their  chief  motive,  but  aim  to 
unify  and  simplify  the  passing  show  as  it  would  "have 
appeared  to  a  single  actor  on  the  scene,  and  aim  to  vivify 
the  scene  by  placing  it  in  association  with  some  human 
passion.  These  tales  look  on  kings  as  eagerly  as  does  his- 
tory itself,  and  catch  at  the  outside,  painting  .the  monarchs 
in  their  famous  moments,  in  the'poses  that  we  know, 
rather  than  in  the  friendly  intimacy  that  lies  beyond  his- 
tory's ken.  In  brief,  such  tales  strive  to  accomplish  with 
some  great  historic  event  or  epoch  what  Smollett  did  with 
life,  present  it  as  a  series  of  pictures  vivified  and  con- 
nected by  the  passage  through  them  of  some  imaginary 
'central  figure.1 

Of  course  these  three  varieties  shade  into  one  another 
more  or  less;  and  further,  if  one  chooses  to  insist,  it  is 
quite  possible  that  only  the  middle  one  has  a  very  positive 

'This  third  form  is  sometimes  antiquarian  rather  than  his- 
torical, that  is,  it  wishes  to  describe  customs,  furniture,  occupa- 
tions or  beliefs,  rather  than  to  narrate  events.  Even  so  noted  a 
writer,  so  skilled  a  technician,  as  Theophile  Gautier,  loses  himself 
in  this  abyss,  this  effort  to  reconstruct  for  the  reader  an  entire 
world  of  obsolete  details.  For  instance,  in  his  Egyptian  novel,  the 
Romance  of  a  Mummy,"  the  entire  first  half  is  devoted  wholly 
to  Egyptian  archaeology,  architecture,  scenery,  and  what  not.  Only 

232 


BACKGROUND 

right  to  be  called  a  novel  at  all.  Yet  romance  has  not  only 
a  fascination  but  also  a  value  of  its  own.  And  for  stori- 
fied  history,  in  an  age  which  insists  on  making  education 
pleasing,  there  is  much  to  be  said.  So  long  as  there  is  a 
public  demand  for  this  work,  so  long  as  even  Henty's 
books  for  boys  continue  to  sell  by  thousands,  just  so  long 
will  the  supply  of  such  books  continue.  They  certainly 
have  a  value  in  stirring  curiosity,  and  supplying  some 
sort  of  historical  ideas  to  those  who  would  otherwise  re- 
main wholly  unaroused.  Upon  the  workers  in  this  field 
one  can  only  urge  that  they  avoid  equally  the  wilful  men- 
dacity of  Dumas,  who  misrepresented  history  for  dram- 
atic effect,  and  the  carelessness  of  Scott,  who  miscon- 
ceived the  past. 

As  to  the  middle  style,  the  true  "historic  novel,"  the 
very  name  confesses  that  this  is  a  compound  form.  It 
can  scarce  be  written  at  all  without  intruding  upon  the 
realms  of  one  or  other  of  its  companions.  How  many 
recent  historic  tales  have  been  wholly  free  from  the  ex- 
aggeration of  romance?  How  many  avoid  carrying  on 
their  shoulders  historical  portraiture  unconnected  with 
the  story?  Moreover,  books  of  this  peculiar  class  may 
perhaps  be  improved  by  their  excrescences.  Who,  as  he 
sips  comfortably  at  one  of  these  tales,  or  roused  to  deeper 
eagerness  drains  it  at  a  draught,  who,  I  say,  would  wish 
away  either  the  dash  of  extravagance  or  the  underlying 

after  more  than  thirty  thousand  musical  words  have  rolled  be- 
fore the  reader's  eyes,  does  the  story  itself,  the  justly  celebrated 
story,  begin.  When  at  last,  or  if,  one  reaches  this,  it  is  simple, 
powerful,  direct.  It  paints  broad  human  emotions,  deals  with 
Moses,  the  deliverance  of  the  Jews  and  the  pursuit  of  Pharaoh, 
and  is  fully  understandable  without  any  of  the  voluminous  burden 
of  preamble. 

233 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

dose  of  history  ?  The  one  lends  sparkle  to  the  drink ;  the 
other  lends  excuse  for  drinking  it.  What  would  be  left 
of  the  "Tale  of  Two  Cities"  if  Sidney  Carton  were  com- 
pelled to  act  with  common  sense  right  from  the  start? 
And  who  on  the  other  hand  would  cut  from  "Henry  Es- 
mond" its  pictures  of  Dick  Steele  and  Addison  and  Swift  ? 

Consider  "Henry  Esmond"  as  the  type,  and  it  becomes 
evident  that  historic  novels  may  do  far  more  for  history 
than  make  it  "pleasant  medicine."  They  may  vivify,  they 
may  interpret  it,  as  the  sober  historian  never  can.  Fiction 
has  justified  its  right  of  taking  liberties  with  even  this 
high  subject,  not  liberties  of  contradicting  the  known,  but 
of  guessing  at  the  unknown.  So  Thackeray  explains  the 
unexplained,  gives  a  reason  why  the  Stuarts  failed  to  re- 
turn to  power  after  Queen  Anne. 

In  fact,  glancing  back  over  the  entire  field  just  covered, 

there  seems  no  work  in  which  the  analysis  of  background 

values   can   be   better   studied   than   in 

Methods  of  the  "Hem?  Esmond>"  °r  Perhaps  "Hy- 
Masters  patia."1  In  both  of  these  masterpieces, 

largely  because  of  their  historic  char- 
acter, background  is  pushed  to  its  fullest  practical  value. 
In  neither,  I  think,  does  it  go  beyond  this.  The  historic 
purpose  never  overrides,  never  even  competes  against  the 
novelistic. 

Neither  does  the  background  in  these  two  works  con- 
fine itself  to  the  single  object  of  supplying  the  historic  set- 

'Another  work  which  naturally  suggests  itself  for  inclusion  here 
is  General  Wallace's  "Ben-hur,"  that  marvellously  broad-embrac- 
ing picture  of  Judean  life  as  it  was  stirred  by  the  emotion  and 
dominated  by  the  passion  of  the  Christ.  I  find,  however,  that  the 
general  feeling  both  of  the  public  and  the  critics  is  that  the  back- 
ground here  is  over  massive,  that  the  story  is  too  thinly  strung, 
too  nearly  lost  amid  the  mighty  pictures. 

234 


BACKGROUND 

ting.  In  "Hypatia"  the  problem  of  spiritual  life,  its  hold 
upon  each  mind,  is  kept  flashing  across  every  page.  I 
can  not  conceive  any  reader  laying  down  the  finished  book 
without  turning  its  question  in  upon  himself.  In  "Henry 
Esmond"  the  weakness  of  human  purpose,  the  helpless 
sadness  of  human  love,  are  stamped  on  every  paragraph. 
Here  the  author,  speaking  always  in  the  person  of  Es- 
mond, runs  Esmond's  comment  through  it  all.  In 
"Hypatia"  many  varied  characters  speak  out  their 
thoughts,  but  those  thoughts  turn,  under  the  author's 
guidance,  always  in  the  same  direction.  In  this  respect 
"Hypatia"  seems  mechanically  perfect.  The  absolute  ex- 
clusion of  all  extraneous  matter  despite  the  vast,  kaleido- 
scopic variety  of  figures  presented,  is  marvellous.  Per- 
haps it  is  too  perfect;  there  is  almost  too  much  of  the 
"personally  conducted"  idea.  The  reader  gets  no  oppor- 
tunity to  pause  and  observe  for  himself  the  wonderful 
world  unrolled  to  view. 

In  this  respect  the  careless  freedom  of  "Esmond"  is 
more  natural.  Its  unity  seems  dependent  on  the  hero's, 
or  perhaps  the  author's,  natural  bent  of  mind.  Thus  the 
impressions  that  the  reader  slowly  gathers,  the  meditative 
pathos  and  the  gentle  firmness,  rise  apparently  out  of  his 
own  inner  self;  they  are  not  forced  upon  him.  Thoughts 
thus  aroused  become  "us,"  and  remain  with  us.  If  an 
author's  higher  success  lie,  as  some  have  thought,  in  mak- 
ing a  permanent  impress  upon  the  reader's  soul,  then  the 
ambitious  student  can  never  too  carefully  examine  the 
background  effects  in  Thackeray's  four  great  novels.1 

^The  four  great  works  on  which  Thackeray's  fame  rests,  "the 
great  quadrilateral"  as  they  have  collectively  been  called,  are 
"Vanity  Fair/'  "The  Newcomes,"  "Henry  Esmond,"  and  "Pen- 
dennis."  His  other  works  are  admittedly  subordinate. 

335 


CHAPTER  VII 

STYLE 

Importance  of  Having  faced  the  novel  from  so  many 
S^1*  different  viewpoints,  having  learned 

that  both  the  opinion  of  critics  and  the  practice  of  novel- 
ists have  dealt  with  each  one  of  these  widely  differing  es- 
sentials as  being  the  true  core  and  value  of  the  whole,  we 
would  almost  seem  to  have  exhausted  the  field.  Yet 
turning  to  the  question  of  style,  we  again  find  authors 
eager  to  assert  that  this,  this  at  last,  is  the  supreme  point 
at  issue,  that  here  lies  the  success  or  failure  of  the  novel- 
ist. Is  he  an  artist?  Has  he  the  sense,  the  taste,  the 
power,  for  a  successful  "style"? 

Even  so  noted  a  critic  as  Professor  Saintsbury,  after 
glancing  over  the  general  novelistic  field  with  broad 
catholicity  and  allowing  that  "the  attractions  which  will 
suffice  to  lure  a  reader  through  one  reading,  and  in  some 
cases  even  enable  him  to  enjoy  or  endure  a  second,  are 
very  numerous  and  various,"  even  Saintsbury  then  in- 
sists that  to  hold  permanent  attention  there  must  be  "one 
or  both  of  two  things,  style  and  character."— 

Fielding,  to  whom  I  have  appealed  so  frequently  as  the 
first  great  conscious  artist  to  essay  the  novel,  gives  a  def- 
inite opinion.  "The  excellence  of  the  mental  entertain- 
ment consists  less  in  the  subject  than  in  the  author's  skill 
in  well  dressing  it  up."  Besant,  who  having  achieved 
such  a  material  success  as  a  novelist  reached  out  his  hand 

236 


STYLE 

to  young  beginners  and  turned  teacher  of  his  art,  has 
given  warning  to  all :  "It  is  almost  impossible  to  estimate 
too  highly  the  value  of  careful  workmanship,  that  is,  of 
style."  Looking  to  novelistic  work  itself,  one  observes 
with  something  of  regret  how  many  modern  writers  have 
made  large  popular  reputations  upon  their  mere  ability 
to  use  pretty  words  and  interweave  them  in  musical  ef- 
fects of  sound,  poetic  half-tints  of  voluptuous  suggestion. 
It  almost  seems  as  if  a  novelist  need  have  nothing  to  say 
at  all,  if  only  he  can  say  that  nothing  well. 

What  then  is  this  "style,"  which  to  practical  writers  has 
seemed  so  overpoweringly  important?  Really  there  are 
two  separate  problems  involved:  one 
deals  with  details,  with  the  wording,  the 
Involved8  phraseology ;  the  other  with  general  con- 

struction, with  the  method  of  the  entire 
work.  The  first  of  these  two  problems  is  mental  and 
rhetorical.  Shall  a  writer  use  sentences  of  one  form  or 
another  ?  Shall  he  write  as  Johnson  did  in  a  familiar  letter 
of  travel,  "a  dirty  fellow  bounced  out  of  the  bed  on  which 
one  of  us  was  to  lie,"  or  as  Johnson  expressed  the  same 
fact  in  his  book,  "Out  of  one  of  the  beds  on  which  we 
were  to  repose,  started  up,  at  our  entrance,  a  man  black 
as  a  Cyclops  from  the  forge"?1  Shall  his  style  be  posi- 
tive or  suggestive,  simple  or  recondite,  prosaic  or 
poetical  ? 

These  are  questions  which  arise  in  every  department  of 
thought,  which  have  a  history  as  wide  as  literature  itself, 
and  a  technique  which  can  be  left  to  the  thousand  able 

*It  was  Macaulay  who  first  called  attention  to  this  particular 
example  of  Johnson's  habit  of  deliberate  translation  from  English 
into  "Johnsonese." 

237 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

works  on  rhetoric.  In  the  particular  application  of  these 
questions  to  the  novel,  I  would  only  wish  to  emphasize 
two  points.  First,  if  the  novel  aims  to  reproduce  real  life, 
and  to  be  a  simplification  of  life,  its  diction  must  be  both 
real  and  simple.  Upon  the  novel  emphatically  seems  laid 
the  command  to  avoid  all  pomposity  and  ornateness.  Sec- 
ond, if  the  novelist  intends  to  depict  emotion,  he  must 
use  the  language  of  emotion,  must  find  means  to  suggest 
such  deeps  as  flatly  measured  measuring  words  can  never 
plumb.  In  brief  his  work  must  have  the  heart  of  poetry 
without  the  mechanical  form,  the  feeling  without  the 
"figures  of  speech."  This  poetic  art  of  diction  is  what 
makes  a  noted  novelist  of  Sterne,  who  has  neither  plot 
nor  passion ;  and  the  same  felicitous  touch  has  made  the 
reputation  of  many  an  author  since. 

The  subject  of  the  novel's  diction  is  not  easy  of  dis- 
cussion in  the  English  language ;  because  in  this  one  point 
the  French  novelists  have  certainly  done 

far  better  W0rk  than  their  EnSlish-sPeak- 
Wording  ing  brethren,  and  philological  beauties 

are  untranslatable.  The  French  novel 
caught  much  of  its  early  beauty  of  wording  from  Rous- 
seau. Chateaubriand  in  his  "Martyrs,"  as  early  as  1809, 
gave  to  the  world  a  masterpiece  of  melody,  and  to  France 
a  text-book  from  which  her  authors  have  learned  much. 
During  the  first  half  of  the  nineteenth  century,  Victor 
Hugo  and  Lamartine  were  the  great  masters  of  prose 
style;  and  Balzac,  striving  to  match  them  in  this  as  he 
itmatched  them  in  larger  matters,  spent  endless  labor 
i  his  printers'  proofs,  studying  every  phrase,  recasting 
every  sentence  again,  again  and  yet  again. 

238 


STYLE 

Higher  even  than  any  of  these  rose  Flaubert,  whose 
language  seems  indeed  the  perfection  of  art,  who  delib- 
erately set  himself  to  write  passages  dependent  wholly  on 
euphony  of  style.  Indeed  the  French  novel  has  had 
schools  and  wordy  wars  of  magazines,  which  turned  upon 
the  use  of  words.  The  brothers  Goncourt  supported  the 
"daring  and  temerarious"  epithet,  the  adjective  forced  to 
do  strange  and  unusual  duties,  as  against  what  they  con- 
temptuously called  the  "adjectives  common  to  all  the 
world." 

To  a  quieter  taste  it  must  be  confessed  that  "style" 
seems  here  to  run  riot,  to  obtrude  itself  at  the  expense 
of  other  values.  Yet  the  same  intense  devotion  to  words 
has,  in  the  present  generation,  manifested  itself  among 
some  English  novelists. 

In  England,  at  the  beginning,  the  novel  inclined  rather 
toward  carelessness  and  crudity  of  style.  One  must  ad- 
mit of  Richardson  that  he  was  cumbrous 
Crudity  of  the  of  sentence  form,  and  hampered  by  a 
vague  vocabulary>  which  he  used  with 
little  taste.  Fielding's  sentence  form 
was  strong  and  his  wording  aptly  chosen,  but  he  was  not 
himself  gifted  with  a  musical  ear,  and  often  when  he 
thought  his  phraseology  most  eloquent,  it  was  most  harsh. 
Scott,  who  could  discriminate  so  delicately  in  poetry,  was 
careless  of  his  style  in  prose.  His  method  of  composition 
was  the  reverse  of  that  of  Balzac ;  for  he  often  neglected 
to  re-read  what  he  had  written,  but  rushed  it  off  to  the 
printer,  and  ignored  the  proofs.  As  a  result  he  is  ver- 
bose and  bombastic,  sometimes  sinking  to  tautology  and 
grammatical  blunders.  Cooper,  a  true  poet  at  heart,  was 

239 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

sadly  hampered  by  lack  of  a  thorough  education,  and 
would  wander  on  helplessly  through  pages  of  inartic- 
ulated  verbosity,  until  a  chance  word,  a  thought,  would 
rouse  the  divine  spark  within,  and  he  would  dash  off  chap- 
ter upon  chapter  full  of  fire,  force,  and  music.  Then  the 
inspiration  flickered,  and  again  the  work  maundered  on. 

Some  English  novelists,  however,  have  been  critics 
also,  and  euphony  received  early  admiration  in  England, 
and  a  study,  careful  and  poetic,  if  not  always  artistic  and 
successful.  Goldsmith  wrote  with  a  simple  melody  which 
still  retains  its  charm.  Johnson's  ponderosity  is  very 
largely  attributable  to  his  pleasure  in  the  harmonies  of 
Latin  words,  the  rolling  cadences  of  polyphonic  sound. 
Mrs.  Radcliffe  brings  her  wording  very  close  to  poetry, 
and  many  a  woman  novelist  has  done  so  since.  To  a 
critic  taste  these  writings  often  verge  on  empty  noise; 
but  the  less  educated  public  which  would  overlook  more 
delicate  effects,  has  frequently  been  caught  by  these  loud 
harmonies.  Women  readers  at  least  are  always  half  poets 
at  heart :  and  those  that  can  not  follow  the  finest  music, 
will  grasp  eagerly  at  ruder  rhythms. 

Adverse  criticism  on  so  delicate  a  point  as  this  can  be 
of  little  value.  Dickens'  vast  popular  fame  was  due  in 
part  to  the  music  of  his  lines.  A  public  too  unpractised 
to  follow  melody  through  the  mechanical  precision  and 
wandering  thought  of  written  poetry,  could  yet  feel  and 
enjoy  the  looser  harmony,  the  cadences  of  sound  that 
flowed  through  Dickens'  prose.  The  sensuous  effect  of 
hearing  or  even  of  reading  Dickens  is  undeniably  strong. 
This  giant  of  sentiment,  untrained  and  unrestrained, 
swept  away  public  and  critics  too  in  a  veritable  debauch 

240 


STYLE 

of  sympathetic  feeling.  The  cavillers  of  our  later  day 
point  out  that  he  carried  rhythm  to  extremes,  that  his 
writing  becomes  not  an  address  but  a  chant,  that  he  is 
sentimental,  by  which  they  mean  silly,  and  hysterical.  Yet 
the  fact  remains  that  he  carried  away  the  critics  of  his 
own  day,  that  they  wept  with  him,  that  Thackeray  threw 
upon  a  printer's  desk  as  if  in  despair  the  serial  issue  con- 
taining the  death  of  Little  Paul  crying,  "There's  no  writ- 
ing against  such  power  as  this — one  has  no  chance !"  The 
extravagance  of  Dickens  is  at  least  preferable  to  the  cau- 
tious mediocrity  that  can  do  nothing. 

I  would  not  seem  to  say  that  there  have  been  no  true 

"masters  of  the  verbal  phrase"  in  English.     Our  poetry 

abundantly  justifies  us  on  this  head.     I 

Artist^    f  on^  wls^  to  emPnas^ze  tnat  m  tne  n°vel 

there  has  been  no  continuous  develop- 
ment of  style,  there  are  as  yet  no  fully 
established  and  generally  admitted  principles  to  which  one 
can  appeal.  Every  novelist  starts  in  to  be  a  law  unto 
himself;  and  were  it  not  for  that  blessed  human  habit 
of  imitating  success  whether  we  understand  it  or  no,  there 
would  be  monstrosities  perpetrated  too  horrible  to  dream 
on. 

Of  high  and  felicitous  taste  in  words  have  been  such 
artists  as  Miss  Austen,  whose  music  is  a  constant  pleasure 
to  the  practised  ear,  and  Thackeray,  whose  style  has  been 
by  some  exacting  connoisseurs  placed  in  the  foremost 
English  rank.  Delicate  judges  who  turn  away  from  most 
of  our  literature  as  overloud,  obtrusive,  overfull  of 
rhetorical  device,  who  maintain  that  good  style  should  be 
so  clear  as  to  be  invisible,  should  concentrate  the  reader's 

241 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

attention  on  the  thought  and  never  distract  notice  to  itself, 
such  judges  point  to  Thackeray.  The  contrast  is  sharply 
drawn  by  Mr.  Brownell  in  his  valuable  essay  upon  Thack- 
eray: "Burke's  elevation  does  not  wholly  save  his  style 
from  that  tincture  of  rhetoric  which  is  the  vice  of  English 
style  in  general- -that  rhetorical  color  which  is  so  clearly 
marked  in  the  contentious  special  pleading  of  Macaulay, 
in  the  exaltation  of  Carlyle,  in  the  rhapsody  of  Ruskin, 
in  the  periodic  stateliness  of  Gibbon,  and  even  in  the  dig- 
nity of  Jeremy  Taylor.  Thackeray's  is  as  destitute  of 
this  element  as  Swift's  or  Addison's,  with  which,  of 
course,  it  is  rather  to  be  compared.  Rhetoric  means  the 
obvious  ordering  of  language  with  a  view  to  effect — when 
it  does  not  spring  from  the  elementary  desire  simply  to 
relieve  one's  mind;  and  the  great  merit  of  the  Queen 
Anne  writers — from  whom  Thackeray  derives — is  their 
freedom  from  this  element  of  artistic  mediocrity.  .  .  . 
Thackeray  is  undoubtedly  to  be  classed  with  the  world's 
elegant  writers — the  writers  of  whom  Virgil  may  stand 
as  the  type  and  exemplar,  the  writers  who  demand  and 
require  cultivation  in  the  reader  in  order  to  be  under- 
stood and  enjoyed."  Mr.  Brownell  then  appeals  td 
Carlyle,  whose  praise  of  Thackeray  he  quotes :  "Nobody 
in  our  day  wrote,  I  should  say,  with  such  perfection  of 
style." 

In  contradistinction  to  this  method,  and  on  a  level 
equally  high,  stands  the  intensely  poetic  prose  of  Poe. 
In  a  more  recent  generation  come  the  haunting  melodies 
which  float  through  Stevenson,  and  the  usually  crisp,  ag- 
gressive, warlike  note  of  the  Kipling  sentence,  which  the 
author  has  known  how  to  modulate  so  effectively  in  his 

242 


STYLE 

Mowgli  tales;  while  in  Meredith's  work  appears  the 
studied  extravagance  of  the  French  school  of  epithet, 
which  has  not  as  yet  proved  over  popular  with  English 
readers. 

Dismissing  thus  briefly  all  the  questions  of  wording 

as  belonging  really  to  the  broader  field  of  rhetoric  and 

equally  pertinent  in  their  application  to 

all  forms  of  literature,  we  come  to  the 

Method"  °f         second  and  larger  Problem  of  "style"  as 
it  applies  specifically  to  the  novel,  as  it 

deals  with  method  rather  than  with  detail.  Where  shall 
the  novelist  begin  and  how?  Shall  he  adopt  the  analytic 
method  or  the  dramatic;  that  is,  shall  he  pick  his  char- 
acters apart,  or  show  only  the  outside;  describe  feelings 
and  their  causes,  or  only  actions  and  expressions  ?  Shall 
he  prefer  dialogue  or  narrative?  Shall  he  speak  in  his 
own  person  to  make  comments,  and  if  so  shall  he  appear 
unobtrusively  like  Dickens,  or  in  a  style  dotted  with  Fs 
like  Thackeray?  Shall  he  keep  wholly  aloof  from  the 
entire  tale,  or  shall  he  swing  to  the  other  extreme  and 
pose  as  a  character  within  it?  If  the  latter,  shall  he  be  the 
hero,  or  a  minor  figure  acting  as  a  sort  of  chorus?  Or 
shall  he,  by  adopting  the  device  of  a  series  of  letters  or 
larger  detached  narratives,  become  every  character  in 
turn?  In  brief  what  is  the  best,  or  the  least  awkward, 
"form"  for  a  story  to  assume? 

In  examining  these  problems  one  can  scarcely  ex- 
pect to  reach  any  final  or  decisive  exalting  of  one  method 
over  another.  Each  one  has  advantages,  and  alas,  disad- 
vantages equally  obvious.  Neither  can  an  historical  sur- 
vey be  of  much  avail. 

243 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

It  is  interesting  of  course  to  note  that  the  earliest  Greek 
and  mediaeval  tales  were  objective  and  dramatic,  just  as 
it  is  interesting  to  note  that  Mr.  Kipling  expresses  a  be- 
lief that  the  earliest  form  of  fiction  was  the  autobiog- 
raphy. On  the  question  of  method,  however,  there  is 
nothing  very  definite  to  be  gathered  from  the  early  manu- 
scripts, except  that  the  oldest  Egyptian  tale  fails  to  bear 
out  Mr.  Kipling's  theory.  Taken  as  a  mere  guess,  I 
should  think  it  more  probable  that  the  first  tellers  of  tales 
chose  heroes  larger  and  vaguer  than  themselves,  and  that 
their  telling  was  so  wholly  impersonal  and  objective  as 
to  have  satisfied  Maupassant  himself,  the  high  priest  and 
teacher  of  the  novel's  objectivity.  It  also  seems  probable 
that  early  stories  were  dramatic,  not  analytic,  and  that 
wherever  conversation  occurred  it  was  repeated  word  for 
word.  Consider  as  bearing  upon  these  points,  not  only 
the  ways  of  uncultured  man  to-day  with  his  "says  I,  says 
he,"  but  also  the  old  folk-lore,  the  fairy  tales  which  have 
been  handed  down  through  almost  every  race. 

The  Egyptian  tales  were,  as  we  have  seen,  unstudied 
and  confused  in  form.  The  Greek  romances  inclined  to 
employ  elaborate  machinery.  Mediaeval  fiction,  whether 
or  not  it  had  considered  all  these  questions,  had  dealt  in 
all  these  forms.  Before  the  "modern"  novel  appeared  in 
the  eighteenth  century,  mediaeval  fiction  had  dealt  in  all 
the  various  methods,  though  perhaps  with  little  considera- 
tion of  the  problems  involved.  Chaucer  had  been  dram- 
atic in  method;  Madame  Lafayette  analytic.  "Beowulf" 
or  the  German  "Reinecke  Fuchs"  had  been  impersonal ; 
while,  on  the  other  hand,  as  early  as  the  "Song  of  Roland" 
and  the  "Nibelungenlied"  the  author  appeared  in  the 

244 


STYLE 

background  to  comment,  to  express  surprise  or  regret. 
For  the  obtrusively  personal  "I"  we  must  perhaps  come 
down  as  far  as  the  essayists,  such  as  Addison  and  Steele. 
The  picaresque  tales  show  the  author  speaking  as  hero. 
He  poses  as  a  minor  figure  of  the  story  in  More's  "Utopia." 
Even  the  device  of  a  series  of  letters  had  bejpn  suggested 
by  Abelard  and  Eloise,  by  Montesquieu's  "Persian  Let- 
ters," and  in  the  direct  novelistic  line  by  such  works  as 
"The  Letters  of  Lindamira,"  an  inconsequent  sketch  not 
unlike  Defoe's  tales  in  purpose,  which  had  been  published 
in  London  over  a  score  of  years  before  "Pamela"  was 
written. 

Hence  in  the  matter  of  form  there  was  nothing  for  the 
later  novel  to  create,  it  could  only  adapt  old  styles  to  mod- 
ern purposes.  Neither  has  there  ever  been  uniformity  of 
method  among  the  novelists  even  of  a  single  period. 
Richardson's  chance-born  form  of  a  series  of  letters  was 
indeed  adopted  by  many  of  his  imitators;  but  Fielding 
and  all  the  "realists"  of  the  day  rejected  it  with  ridicule. 

As  to  the  fitness  of  this  much  disputed  form,  which  the 
modern  novel  adopted  at  its  first  appearance,  there  can 
be  no  question  that  for  Richardson's  pe- 
o^the  culiar  line  of  genius  no  other  arrange- 

Lettcr  Form  nient  would  have  sufficed.  The  self- 
satisfied  printer  appears  before  us  as  the 
lucky  beneficiary  of  a  most  unusual  string  of  coincidences. 
The  elimination  of  any  one  of  the  series  would  have  de- 
stroyed the  result.  The  somewhat  petty  nature  of  the 
man,  his  bashfulness  and  vanity,  the  occupations  of  his 
letter-writing  youth,  the  printing  business  to  which  he 
devoted  his  manhood,  his  religious  absorption,  the  prac- 

245 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

tical  plan  of  his  associates  to  publish  a  text-book  of  let- 
ter-writing for  the  ignorant,  all  these  accidents  of  life 
had  to  combine  and  pass  in  ordered  sequence  before  the 
last  of  them  could  rouse  Richardson's  deeply  hidden, 
over-crusted  genius  to  the  production  of  a  masterpiece. 

For  dramatic  purposes,  whether  of  objective  portrayal 
or  excited  action,  the  letter  form  is  almost  useless.  Since 
the  letter  must  be  "in  character"  with  the  supposed 
writer,  the  revelation  of  that  character  becomes  its  most 
evident  effect,  and  the  author  must  pen  words  such  as  an 
ordinary  person  would,  words  of  idle  discussion  and  self- 
expression  with  fragments  of  news  thrown  in,  never  a 
wholly  objective  sketch.  So,  too,  the  idea  of  any  tragic 
movement  culminating  in  the  death  or  disappearance  or 
even  the  serious  injury  of  the  writer  is  precluded  by  the 
very  existence  of  the  letter  itself.  The  hero — or  more 
commonly  the  heroine — could  still  write. 

The  clumsiness  of  the  scheme  constitutes  yet  another 
objection.  To  be  at  all  natural  the  writer  must  say  so 
much  beside  the  points  that  bear  upon  the  story.  Even 
the  most  wholly  egoistic  man  does  not  entirely  ignore  the 
affairs  of  his  correspondent,  and  devote  his  letters  solely 
to  an  account  of  himself  and  his  emotions.  Moreover 
each  emotional  scribe  must  be  supplied  with  an  equally 
emotional  confidante,  who  shall  consent  not  only  to  read 
these  outbursts  but  to  answer  them  in  kind,  and  shall  con- 
tinue to  thrill  clamorously  at  second  hand  with  sorrows 
warmed  over  from  the  day  before. 

Back  of  this  lies  still  the  intrinsic  improbability  of  the 
whole  conception.  Could  any  sane  "young  person"  write 
out  her  entire  soul?  And  if  she  could,  yet  would  she? 

246 


STYLE 

Would  she  confess  herself  with  absolute  sincerity  to  a 
distant  friend  and  entrust  the  most  embarrassing  secrets, 
even  black  enduring  shame,  to  the  chances  of  the  postbox 
and  the  irretractable  positiveness  of  the  written  word? 
And  if  one  can  not  conceive  such  recklessness  even  in  a 
young  and  inexperienced  woman,  with  her  crying  need 
for  sympathy,  how  can  it  be  postulated  of  a  man?  A 
very  young  and  very  pure  angel,  wholly  unsuspicious  of 
the  mischances  and  the  malice  of  the  world,  might  write 
that  way;  so  might  a  devil  corresponding  with  another 
devil  and  protected  by  lack  of  physical  body  from  the 
punishments  of  the  police  court.  But  if  any  human  per- 
son essayed  it  in  real  life,  he  or  she  would  be  branded, 
even  by  the  trusted  confidante,  as  an  utterly  unreliable 
poseur. 

All  of  these  objections  to  the  letter  form  were  seen 
upon  its  first  appearance,  and  thoroughly  canvassed  by 
Richardson's  friends  and  his  enemies.  As  a  presentation 
of  "real  life"  his  effusions  were  hooted  at  by  n\any  critics. 
He  himself  had  felt  both  the  difficulties  and  the  limita- 
tions of  his  method.  He  is  compelled  to  present  the  peas- 
ant Pamela  as  able  not  only  to  analyze  her  subtlest  feel- 
ings but  also  to  write  most  poetically  of  them  and  of  her 
trials  to  her  parents.  To  explain  this  unusual  degree  of 
culture,  she  is  represented  as  having  been  excessively  edu- 
cated, at  the  whim  of  a  patroness.  Her  peasant  father's 
ability  to  read  her  elaborate  accounts  and  answer  them  in 
kind,  also  necessitates  special  explanation.  Other  folks 
write  explanations  of  the  plot.  Later,  Richardson  finds 
himself  compelled  to  break  in  upon  the  correspondence 
and  appear  in  person  to  explain  the  details,  to  account  for 

247 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

her  master's  having  secretly  read  all  that  she  wrote,  and 
to  enforce  the  morals.  Finally,  too,  it  becomes  so  ob- 
vious that  if  the  abducted  Pamela  can  send  letters  she  can 
be  rescued,  that  the  author  is  reduced  to  having  her  write 
a  diary  instead.  A  diary  which  her  persecutors  can  take 
from  her  at  any  moment,  is  used  as  a  confessional  for 
everything  she  does  not  want  them  to  know.  In  the  story 
one  may  skim  over  all  these  absurdities,  accept  them  as 
poetic  license;  but  any  real  case  of  the  kind  would  be 
impossible.  A  suspicious  person  would  certainly  accuse 
Miss  Pamela,  for  instance,  of  expecting  that  diary  to  be 
read,  and  of  scheming  for  just  the  alluring  and  remorse- 
ful effect  that  it  ultimately  has  upon  her  master.  As  to 
her  father's  later  letters,  he  had  certainly  found  time, 
even  among  the  many  duties  entailed  by  his  sudden  afflu- 
ence, to  struggle  through  a  course  of  rhetoric.  He  avoids 
all  mention  of  the  fact ;  but  its  effect  on  the  poetic  balance 
of  his  effusions  is  undeniable. 

If  Richardson  had  failed  to  note  any  one  of  all  these 
flaws,  they  must  have  been  fully  and  carefully  pointed  out 
to  him.  Yet  eight  years  later  he  employed  the  same 
letter  form  for  his  masterpiece,  "Clarissa  Harlowe" ;  and 
another  five  years  beyond  he  used  it  for  his  third  and 
final  novel.  Why?  To  him  at  least  there  were  advan- 
tages outweighing  all  its  evils.  First  and  greatest  was 
that  his  aim  was  to  reveal  "the  deeps  of  the  human  heart," 
and  who  can  truly  know  those  deeps  except  the  owner 
of  the  heart?  Therefore  he  insists  that  each  heroine,  as 
in  his  later  books  each  hero,  shall  speak  for  herself,  rather 
than  be  revealed  through  the  medium  of  an  author's  opin- 
ions of  her.  This  is  the  method  of  real  life,  folks  speak- 

248 


STYLE 

ing  at  first  hand  and  all  interpretation  of  their  true  worth 
left  to  us.  Then,  for  fear  we  misinterpret,  comes  the 
confidante,  exclaiming,  admiring,  censuring,  revealing  the 
opinion  of  the  world.  Everything  is  seen  in  a  double, 
often  in  multiple,  light,  even  as  it  is  in  life  itself.  First 
is  given  the  event,  and  the  heroine's  reflections  on  it ;  then 
often  comes  the  hero's  account  of  it,  and  his  reflections 
also;  next  come  the  impressions  of  her  confidante,  and 
of  his,  and  finally  the  disapproval  of  some  enemy,  and 
the  usually  mistaken  comments  of  the  outer  world. 

Is  it  any  wonder  that  we  can  get  to  know  Clarissa  and 
Clementina  and  Harriet  Byron  as  we  know  few  other 
women  either  in  fiction  or  in  fact?  Richardson's  truths 
are  displayed  not  in  an  illuminative  flash,  such  as  Shake- 
speare uses  to  reveal  the  world,  or  as  Scott  employs  to 
enforce  just  so  much  knowledge  of  life  as  he  possesses; 
Richardson's  portraiture  comes  slowly,  painstakingly,  bit 
by  bit.  But  in  the  end  it  is  irresistible.  Clarissa's  methodi- 
cal housekeeping,  for  instance,  is  so  insisted  upon  by 
everybody  in  the  book  that  finally,  through  sheer  force 
of  repetition,  the  reader  comes  to  accept  it  almost  as  a 
matter  of  conscience.  Looking  solely  to  this  aspect  of 
convincingness,  one  is  tempted  to  urge  that  all  novelists 
should  use  the  letter  method. 

When  every  fact  has  thus  to  pass  through  so  many 
hands  and  receive  so  many  comments  the  reason  for  the 
narrow  field  and  yet  interminable  length  of  our  first 
novelist's  works  becomes  apparent.  Later  men,  the 
French  feuilleton  writers,  Sue  and  Hugo,  present  us  tales 
as  long  as  "Clarissa  Harlowe";  but  they  fill  their  pages 
with  multiplicity  of  characters  and  incidents.  Richard- 

249 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

son's  length  consists  of  commentary  and  repetition  and 
careful  analysis  of  feeling. 

Another  value  of  the  letter  or  diary  form1  is  its  element 
of  suspense.  All  other  forms  assume  to  have  been  written 
after  the  event  has  been  completed.  The  writer  knows 
how  everything  turned  out,  and  the  clever  reader  has  thus 
small  difficulty  in  knowing  too.  If  the  denouement  is  not 
deliberately  hinted  at  or  admitted,  the  very  air  of  the 
writer,  his  solemnity,  or  extravagance,  or  gayety,  con- 
fesses it.  But  the  letter  is  supposed  to  have  been  sent 
while  the  future  was  unknown.  Its  tone,  bright  or 
gloomy,  is  caught  from  the  evanescent  present,  not  from 
the  settled  past.  It  fills  the  reader  with  its  own  futile 
hope,  its  own  causeless  fears.  His  mind  wavers  as  real 
minds  do  waver  in  our  changing  world.  He  is  as  reso- 
lute or  as  timorous  as  the  writer  of  the  letter.  He  is  as 
over-sure  or  as  over-silly. 

It  was  this  that  held  readers  to  Richardson  despite 
length  and  longwindedness.  It  was  this  that  brought 
weeping  women  to  the  author's  feet  to  entreat  him  to  let 
Clarissa  live.  They  were  sharing  her  uncertainty  as  they 
had  shared,  in  milder  and  more  pleasant  form,  her  every 
terror  and  her  every  hope. 

Considering  the  remarkable  advantages  thus  offered, 

'The  bearing  of  all  these  technical  points  upon  the  very  similar 
diary  form  seems  too  obvious  to  need  separate  comment.  A  diary 
affords  excuse  for  much  franker  self-confession ;  but  a  real  diary, 
as  was  evidenced  with  Marie  Bashkirtseff,  must  of  necessity  be  so 
discursive,  so  filled  with  a  thousand  thoughts  leading  away  in  a 
thousand  different  directions,  that  any  story,  any  central  unity 
to  the  whole,  would  be  quite  impossible.  The  imaginary  diary, 
which  only  pretends  to  wonder  whither  it  is  going  while  really  it 
knows  full  well  and  advances  with  sufficient  directness,  is  a  form 
which  has  been  repeatedly  and  very  effectively  used. 

250 


STYLE 

there  is  no  cause  for  surprise  that  this  form  was  followed 
by  so  many  of  Richardson's  admirers.  It  even  became 
less  improbable  with  time,  for  it  set  the  fashion  among 
young  ladies,  and  they  actually  began  the  writing  of  elab- 
orate letters  and  composing  of  endlessly  poetic  diaries. 
The  form  was  adopted  by  Miss  Burney,  and  occasionally 
by  Miss  Edgeworth.  Miss  Austen's  instinctive  sense  for 
truth  led  her  to  reject  it,  and  even  to  heap  it  with  ridicule 
in  "Northanger  Abbey" ;  but  her  very  ridicule  shows  the 
prevalence  of  the  form.  One  rather  marvels  that  Mrs. 
Radcliffe,  with  her  eagerness  for  romance  and  her  search 
for  tense  emotion,  should  have  passed  by  the  agonized 
epistle.  What  opportunities  it  would  have  offered  the 
distressed  heroine  for  exaggerating  her  fears !  Only  the 
increasing  modern  demand  for  verisimilitude,  the  in- 
creased value  set  upon  reality,  has  finally  driven  the  letter 
form  into  comparative  disuse;  and  it  is  still  occasionally 
employed  for  works  of  character  portrayal  or  of  tender 
poetic  emotion,  such  as  give  little  heed  to  story. 

With  the  passing  of  the  letter  form,  there  passed  away 
to  some  extent  the  analytic  method.     This  change  re- 
sulted not  only  because  the  letter  writer, 

T^Vi^ 

Dramatic  t^ie  character  within  the  tale,  is  the  only 

Method  one  wno  can  be  really  subjective  at  first 

hand  and  describe  emotions  from  within ; 
but  also  because  of  the  success  of  Jane  Austen  and  of 
Scott.  Miss  Austen  is  essentially  objective.  She  depicts 
the  world  as  she  sees  it,  nothing  else.  She  does  indeed 
describe  character,  but  it  is  always  as  that  character  is 
seen  by  somebody  else,  usually  the  heroine.  The  author 
states  the  impressions  made  upon  the  heroine's  mind ;  but 

251 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

never  dissects  the  impression  or  endeavors  to  detect  on 
what  secret  subtle  cords  emotion  had  been  playing. 

Far  more  popular  than  Miss  Austen  and  far  more  posi- 
tive in  his  immediate  influence  upon  the  novel's  form  was 
Scott,  with  his  tremendous  dramatic  power.  His  work 
tends  all  to  incident  and  animation,  to  vigor  and  poetic  vi- 
sion. Emotions  to  him  are  spirits,  simple,  intense,  and 
beautiful;  love  is  an  idyllic  dream.  Analysis  is  almost 
wholly  foreign  to  his  vehement  rush  of  imagination.  He 
is  a  picture  painter  whether  of  action  or  of  scene.  No 
man  before  had  ever  quite  known  how  to  outline  pictures 
of  action  so  sharply  with  the  pen,  to  make  them  so  vivid, 
so  intensely  interesting  from  the  spectator's  point  of  view. 

Following  on  Scott's  heels  came  everybody  painting 
pictures.  At  first  because  he  did;  later  with  a  growing 
recognition  that  those  pictures  could  be  made  to  convey, 
perhaps  better  than  any  analytic  words,  the  feeling  which 
underlay  the  scene.  It  was  the  instinctive  art  of  the  an- 
cient ballad  come  back  in  conscious  form  into  the  novel. 
We  are  shown  of  the  hero,  as  of  Sir  Patrick  Spens  of 
old,  that  "a  tear  blinded  his  ee,"  not  because  the  tear- 
stained  eye  presents  of  itself  an  attractive  picture,  but  in 
order  that  the  tear  may  set  us  to  questioning  its  source, 
and  searching  for  ourselves  the  deeps  behind  the  eye. 
The  author  calls  our  attention  to  such  surface  manifesta- 
tions as  he  thinks  will  enable  both  him  and  us  to  interpret 
the  underlying  soul.  This  is  the  dramatic  method,  which 
was  fully  developed  by  the  generation  succeeding  Scott, 
and  which  reached  such  artistic  excellence  in  Dumas  and 
Poc. 

In  the  hands  of  less  powerful  artists  this  method  was 
252 


STYLE 

found  to  be  singularly  unconvincing.  Readers  noted  the 
symptoms  but  failed  to  interpret  them  satisfactorily, 
sometimes  wholly  mistook  the  disease.  Nay,  some  patient 
book  buyers  were  even  so  fatuous  as  to  overlook  the  very 
symptoms  themselves ;  they  took  comedy  for  tragedy  and 
vice  versa.  The  French  novelists  seem  to  have  received 
the  most  annoyance  from  this  cause ;  and  several  of  them 
have  picturesquely  despised  the  stupid  public  and,  ignor- 
ing its  neglect,  have  written  on  for  Art.  In  France  far 
more  than  in  English-speaking  lands  is  encountered  that 
anomaly,  the  novel  written  for  the  literary  critic,  as  a 
form  distinct  from  the  novel  for  the  public.  Such  was 
much  of  the  work  of  Merimee,  of  Gautier,  and  more  re- 
cently of  Bourget. 

The  difficulty  of  dramatic  tale  telling  soon  led  to  that 

modified  form  of  it,  the  personally  conducted  novel.    In 

this  the  author  attends  his  scenes  as  in- 

Thc  Personally     terpreter ;  and  having  pointed  out  each 

Novel*0*  S°k'  ^e  ^ints  w^at  each  mav  mean'  or  ex~ 

plains  just  what  it  can  not  mean.    This 

was  the  method  of  Bulwer's  later  work.  Dickens  adopted 
it,  and  handled  it  with  delightful  skill,  knowing  almost  al- 
ways just  what  to  point  out,  just  where  to  comment.  Per- 
haps he  goes  a  bit  over  far,  is  a  bit  uncomplimentary  in 
assuming  we  are  all  so  nearly  blind.  He  explains  too 
much.  Some  critics  declare  he  is  over-emphatic,  and  be- 
comes a  bore.  This,  I  think,  is  only  another  way  of  in- 
dicating one  cause  of  his  perennial  popularity  with 
children,  and  with  youngsters  who  still  need  a  guide 
in  the  A  B  C  of  life.  The  old  folk  turn  from  him  to 
Thackeray. 

253 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

Thackeray's  work  swings  perhaps  to  the  other  extreme. 
He  will  scarce  point  out  enough  to  serve  the  popular  ne- 
cessity. You  must  watch  closely  if  you  would  understand 
his  people,  while  you  read.  How  marvellously  subtle,  for 
example,  is  that  portraiture  of  Beatrix  Esmond  at  her 
lover's  hands.  There  is  never  a  harsh  word  of  reproach, 
yet  the  woman  stands  before  us  in  all  her  charm,  in  all 
her  evil,  her  strength  and  her  vanity.  Plenty  of  com- 
ment always  appears  in  Thackeray ;  but  it  refers  mainly, 
as  I  have  suggested  before,  to  life  in  general  rather  than 
to  the  characters  of  the  story.  Their  acts  are  made  the 
text  for  little  sermons,  which  look  far  beyond  the  tale. 
Earlier  authors  had  been  content  to  give  their  story,  show 
their  characters,  and  leave  the  reader  to  meditate  upon 
the  result.  But  Thackeray  insists  on  supplying  all  the 
wandering  meditation  himself.  At  every  moment  he 
holds  up  the  tale  to  say,  "Here  is  what  this  sug- 
gests to  me,  the  author;  follow  this  line  of  reflection, 
please." 

This  manner  with  Thackeray  is  a  great  success.  I  sup- 
pose he  is  more  read  to-day  for  these  same  sermons  than 
for  his  stories.  Yet  the  manner  is  obviously  one  of  such 
serious  dangers  as  few  would  venture  to  confront.  It  de- 
mands that  an  author  shall  be  always  fresh  of  thought, 
always  facing  life  from  some  new  standpoint,  never  plati- 
tudinous, never  forgetful  of  humor  and  absurdity. 
Which  of  us  will  guarantee  that  our  meditations  on  the 
incident  presented  shall  be  invariably  keener  and  more 
attractive  than  the  reader's  own?  And  which  of  us  shall 
venture  on  such  repeated  interruptions  of  the  interest  of 
our  tale,  shall  trust  so  fully  in  the  reader's  complaisance 

254 


STYLE 

to  delay,  to  listen  with  polite  attention  to  our  philosophy 
of  life,  and  then  to  resume  the  story? 

The  dramatic  method  of  the  mid-century  novel  thus 
became  so  overloaded  with  discussion  and  interpretation 
that  it  was  clearly  swinging  backward  to- 
Recent  ward     analysis.       In    most    of    George 

naytic  Eliot's    work    analysis    becomes    plainly 

Studies 

dominant.      The    author    is    continually 

dissecting  the  motives  of  her  characters.  Nor  does  she 
simply  present  the  dissected  figure  for  our  interpretation, 
a  method  which  might  still  be  called  objective,  but  insists 
on  supplying  the  interpretation  for  us.  All  she  asks  of 
the  reader  is,  that  he  shall  recognize  the  truth  of  what  he 
sees. 

This  also  has  become  the  method  of  the  Russian  real- 
ists, though  they  study  emotion  rather  than  character. 
Tolstoi's  sketch  of  "Ivan  Ilyitch,"  for  example,  has  no  ex- 
ternal story  to  tell,  or  only  one  too  uselessly  unpleasant  to 
be  told.  Its  interest  lies  in  the  dissection  step  by  step  of 
Ivan's  own  feelings,  his  sufferings  and  their  causes.  The 
slow  degeneration  of  a  human  being  through  physical 
sickness  and  mental  horror  is  laid  before  us  with  a  care- 
ful explanation  and  elaboration  of  each  detail  which 
makes  it  almost  too  hideous  to  read. 

It  is  notable  that  in  dealing  with  these  later  authors  one 
instinctively  speaks  of  their  works  as  studies.  This  in 
fact  emphasizes  just  the  change  that,  under  the  influence 
of  science,  has  come  upon  the  novel.  The  earlier  novel- 
ists did  not  "study"  in  our  modern  sense.  They  wrote, 
as  the  poet  is  supposed  to  write,  under  the  impulse  of 
inspiration.  They  depicted  the  world  as  they  themselves 

255 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

had  seen  and  known  it.  Even  Fielding's  work  is  but  a 
series  of  the  author's  general  "impressions  of  life."  So 
I*  is  Richardson's,  or  Smollett's.  On  the  other  hand  there 
is  no  modern  realist  worth  the  name  who  does  not  pre- 
pare for  every  novel  by  a  special  study,  by  a  long  and 
patient  investigation  and  experimentation  on  the  partic- 
ular theme  involved.  He  writes  of  life  as  the  scientist, 
while  earlier  novelists  wrote  as  poets. 

I  am  not  sure  but  that  the  poet's  insight  into  life  is  apt 
to  be  keener  than  the  scientist's  of  the  same  period.  At 
any  rate  the  general  world  seems  to  have  felt  it  so,  and 
there  has  been  lately  a  marked  reaction  against  the  real- 
ists. Investigation  of  life  is  again  being  subordinated  to 
its  interpretation.  Doubtless  the  truth  is  that  the  really 
mighty  novelist  must  be  investigator  and  interpreter  as 
well.  He  must  study  much ;  but  he  must  not  present  the 
mere  record  of  that  study,  and  expect  its  acceptance  as  a 
work  of  art.  Science  is  not  art.  The  novelist  must  use 
his  science  as  a  mountain  peak  wheref  rom  to  soar  into  the 
heavens. 

There  are  other  smaller  questions  of  technical  form 

that  might  still  be  raised.    One  is  the  use  of  conversation 

in  the  novel.  There  is  not  much  recorded 

Value  of  dialogue   in   eighteenth   century   novels. 

Dialogue  Conversations  are  either  summarized  in 

the    third    person    or     expanded    into 

speeches,  such  as  the  exhortations  of  Captain  Blifil  and 

Allworthy  in  "Tom  Jones." 

It  is  true  that  Richardson  at  times  falls  back  upon  the 
drama,  and  inserts  even  into  his  letters  the  names  of  the 
speakers,  followed  by  their  words ;  but  this  is  occasional 

256 


STYLE 

and  exceptional.  Jane  Austen  was  the  first  to  use  to  any 
extent  the  directness  and  simplicity  of  our  oral  talk.  In 
fact  this  is  a  natural  concomitant  of  the  dramatic  method, 
which  instead  of  discoursing  to  a  languid  reader  in  his 
library  easy  chair,  places  a  spectator  before  the  pro- 
scenium arch  and  bids  him  look  and  listen. 

The  full  power  of  dialogue  was  scarcely  recognized, 
however,  before  Dumas.  His  best  scenes  are  the  ideal  of 
the  drama,  the  quick  flashing  speech  of  challenge  and  re- 
ply, which  reveals  action  rather  than  accompanies  it.  Of 
course  dialogue  can  be  as  prosy  and  commonplace  in 
books  as  most  of  it  is  in  life.  But  at  least  Dumas  has  re- 
vealed what  it  can  do  in  a  master's  hand.  It  can  unfold  ac- 
tion, character,  emotion,  description,  and  stage  directions, 
and  it  can  make  all  these  seem  natural  even  when  they  are 
most  extravagant,  convincing  when  they  are  most  false. 
To  a  beginner  one  would  almost  be  ready  to  hazard  the 
advice,  write  dialogue,  dialogue  all  the  time,  practise  to 
make  it  tell  all  your  story  if  you  can,  but  practise  also  to 
keep  it  brief  and  simple  and  unstrained.  If  dialogue 
sounds  booky  on  the  one  side,  or  idle  on  the  other,  its 
value  slips  away. 

As  to  the  novelist  within  the  story,  that  is,  the  tale  in 

which  either  the  hero  or  a  minor  figure  appears  as  telling 

the  whole,  this  is  a  form  which,  uncom- 

rPl»  ^ 

P,  mon  in  the  eighteenth  century,  has  lately 

Author  come  into  considerable  repute.  The  pica- 

resque romance  had  posed  as  autobiog- 
raphy ;  and  the  tales  of  Defoe,  the  "Gulliver's  Travels"  of 
Swift  are  the  direct  descendants  of  this  early  type.  They 
are  the  personal  narrative  of  the  wandering  hero.  Robert 

257 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

Paltock's  "Peter  Wilkins"  is  also  a  survival  of  this  idea. 
The  genuine  novel  of  the  eighteenth  century  rather  re- 
jected this  hero  form,  probably  because  of  its  narrowness, 
as  well  as  its  association  with  wandering  adventure.  The 
letter  style  offered  the  same  advantage  of  intimate  knowl- 
edge and  natural  self -revelation,  with  more  variety.  The 
author  speaking  from  outside  the  tale  could  examine  the 
hero  more  carefully  and  describe  him  more  accurately. 
Moreover  the  falsity,  which  the  hero  form  shares  with 
that  of  letters,  in  calling  on  a  man  to  speak  out  every- 
thing about  himself,  prejudiced  against  it  the  realists  of 
the  day.  Even  Smollett,  whose  early  narratives  gained 
so  much  from  this  vigorous  method,  abandoned  it  in  his 
later,  more  artistic  work. 

In  France  the  morbid  autobiographical  novel  of  self- 
revelation  fell  easily  into  the  hero  form,  but  in  England 
it  was  little  used.  Goldsmith  in  his  one  novel  saw  its 
value  for  character  depiction,  and  made  the  Vicar  of 
Wakefield  his  own  amanuensis.  Such  fantasies  as  John- 
stone's  "Chrysal,"  telling  the  adventures  of  a  guinea 
piece,  almost  of  necessity  adopted  the  same  style ;  but  it 
found  no  permanent  acceptance  in  English  literature,  un- 
til Charlotte  Bronte  recognized  it  as  the  only  true  form 
for  deepest  passion,  and  wrote  "Jane  Eyre." 

Since  then,  the  autobiographical  novel  has  become  a 
standard  form  for  either  of  three  purposes ;  first  for  the 
display  of  an  extreme  passion,  second  for  the  romance  of 
mere  adventure,  and  third  for  a  whimsical  character 
study  of  the  central  figure.  Thus  in  Charlotte  Bronte's 
hands  this  autobiographic  form  expressed  a  devotion  so 
intense  that  the  heroine's  own  fire  burns  through  the  critic 

258 


STYLE 

sense,  burns  out  all  thought  of  character  or  scene  or  local 
coloring,  and  forbids  us  to  heed  aught  except  the  passion. 
As  Defoe  and  Smollett  used  the  form,  for  the  tale  of  ad- 
venture, it  can  take  us  into  the  heart  of  the  changing 
scenes.  With  later  masters  it  makes  the  reader  live  the 
life  of  the  hero,  fight  and  conquer  with  him,  breathe  the 
breath  of  romance  for  himself,  and  escape  from  all  this 
workaday  world  of  self-responsibility.  Who  has  not 
lived  thus  with  Jim  Hawkins  in  "Treasure  Island,"  with 
Ralph  Percy  in  "To  Have  and  To  Hold,"  or  with  a  dozen 
even  bigger  heroes  one  might  name?  The  third  use  has 
descended  from  Goldsmith.  In  this  the  writer,  sup- 
posedly unaccustomed  to  the  trade,  is  made  to  reveal  him- 
self unconsciously,  where  least  intending  it,  like  Thack- 
eray's Barry  Lyndon,  or  that  masterpiece  of  the  style, 
John  Ridd  in  "Lorna  Doone." 

The  chief  difficulty  with  this  form  is  that  it  demands 
acceptance  of  the  fancy  that  the  itch  to  write  has  seized 
upon  some  worthy  gentleman  whom  it  probably  never 
would  have  touched,  and  that  desire  to  write  miraculously 
brings  with  it  a  professional  literary  skill.  Moreover,  the 
reader  must  view  life  through  the  supposed  writer's  eyes, 
and  must  trust  him,  except  where  he  is  subtly  made  to 
reveal  his  falsity  and  error,  as  to  both  his  understanding 
and  his  truth  about  himself  and  others. 

As  to  the  variant  of  the  autobiographic  form,  the  writer 
as  a  minor  character,  I  first  find  this  associated  with  the 
genuine  novel  in  Richter's  work,  markedly  in  his  "Quin- 
tus  Fixlein,"  published  in  Germany  in  1796.  Richter  was 
a  most  original  genius,  little'  bound  by  precedent,  and 
wholly  without  any  sense  of  form  or  of  proportion. 

259 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

Hence,  with  a  naivete  impossible  to  any  one  else,  he 
steps  into  the  climax  of  his  own  tale.  The  quintus,  or 
schoolmaster,  Fixlein,  has  a  superstition  that  he  will  die 
upon  a  certain  birthday.  His  friends  deceive  him  as  to 
his  age,  he  thinks  the  day  is  passed,  laughs  at  his  own 
folly,  marries  and  has  settled  down  to  happiness,  when 
he  accidentally  discovers  the  trick ;  and,  the  proper  birth- 
day approaching,  he  lies  quietly  down  to  expire.  There- 
upon Richter  himself  rushes  in  to  save  him,  the  narrative 
jumps  suddenly  into  the  first  person,  and  Fixlein  is  res- 
cued, as  no  other  hero  has  ever  so  directly  been,  by  the 
personal  intervention  of  his  creator. 

This  confusion  of  his  own  life  with  that  of  his  puppets 
is  peculiar  to  Richter.  Thackeray,  however,  does  the  same 
thing  in  a  more  artistic  way  when  that  vague  Pendennis 
floats  through  several  of  his  novels  as  their  author  and 
becomes  the  central  figure  of  one.  Where  the  writer  is 
Pendennis  and  where  Thackeray,  one  is  never  wholly 
sure.  It  was  in  Thackeray's  time  that  this  form  became 
widespread.  Emily  Bronte  has  her  "  Wuthering  Heights," 
told  by  the  ancient  housekeeper  of  the  tale.  Hawthorne 
has  his  "Blithedale  Romance,"  told  by  Miles  Coverdalc, 
a  minor  poet,  the  unsuccessful  wooer  of  the  heroine. 

The  difficulties  of  the  form  are  obvious.  How  shall 
a  housekeeper  become  so  intimate  with  all  these  facts  and 
feelings,  and  how  appreciate  them  so  subtly,  and  describe 
them  so  crisply?  As  for  Miles  Coverdale,  what  right 
has  he  to  use  as  a  novelist  the  life  secrets  of  these  friends 
whom  he  has  known  as  a  man — and  a  gentleman?  He 
writes  himself  down  a  cad;  and  one  does  not  care  to 
spend  the  entire  time  required  for  a  novel  in  the  com- 

260 


STYLE 

pany  of  a  cad.  With  a  thorough-paced  rascal  like  Barry 
Lyndon  it  is  different.  One  can  laugh  at  him  and  despise 
him  while  reading.  But  Coverdale  invites  the  reader 
as  a  confidante,  and  the  listener  shares  in  the  dishonor 
of  the  revelations. 

A  further  difficulty  in  this  form  lies  in  the  confusion, 
the  shifting  of  the  centre  of  interest.  The  minor  fig- 
ure is  too  much  in  evidence ;  one  reads  the  tale  hampered 
not  only  by  the  imperfect  knowledge  of  this  writer,  his 
lack  of  positiveness  and  of  power,  but  also  by  having  eyes 
fixed  too  insistently  upon  the  writer's  fortunes,  rather 
than  the  hero's.  I  remember  strongly  how  this  affected 
me  when  as  a  youth  I  first  read  "The  Blithedale  Ro- 
mance." I  did  not  like  Coverdale  even  then,  though  I 
had  not  Analyzed  the  reason.  Yet  despite  this  antag- 
onism, I  felt  drawn  to  sympathize  with  him.  His 
anxieties,  his  hopes,  were  displayed  ever  before  my  eyes. 
I  came  to  hope  with  him  that  at  least  one  of  the  ladies 
would  learn  to  care  for  him.  I  read  their  speeches, 
watching  the  effect  on  Miles ;  and  when  the  end  left  him 
deserted,  I  was  sorry  not  for  the  truly  central  figures  of 
the  tale  so  much  as  for  poor  weak  Miles,  who  had  talked 
to  me  and  been  my  friend,  and  whom  I  knew  far  better 
than  I  did  the  others.  In  some  ways  "The  Blithedale 
Romance"  is  one  of  Hawthorne's  greatest  books;  but  in 
the  matter  of  form  it  is  defective.  I  know,  indeed,  of 
no  work  of  this  type  where  the  confusion  of  the  centre 
of  interest  does  not  form  a  blemish,  unless  it  be  the 
Sherlock  Holmes  stories,  where  the  narrator  becomes  so 
wholly  and  impersonally  a  chorus  of  admiration,  that  I  do 
not  think  any  interest  was  ever  lost  on  him. 

261 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

It  would  seem,  then,  summing  up  what  has  been  con- 
sidered in  this  chapter,  that  for  certain  purposes  the  hero 
author  novel  has  a  peculiar  value,  but 
for  general  use  it  is  too  narrow ;  that  the 

M°  to  Method        letter  form  is  to°  unreal  and  to°  Prolix» 
so  that  neither  it  nor  the  minor  character 

as  author  form  is  ever  likely  to  be  in  common  use  in 
the  future.  They  can  appear  only  as  variants  revived 
for  some  peculiar  cause.  If  the  novelist  is  to  come  upon 
the  scene,  it  must,  as  a  rule,  be  frankly  done  in  his  own 
person  as  a  commentator  who  stands  outside  the  tale. 
The  analytic  novel  compels  him  to  do  this,  and  the  only 
doubtful  question  is  as  to  whether  he  shall  confine  him- 
self to  the  explanation  of  the  story,  or  whether  he  shall 
venture  to  discourse,  in  the  manner  of  Thackeray,  on 
whatsoever  application  of  the  theme  he  will.  In  the 
dramatic  form,  the  "I"  is  not  only  unnecessary,  but 
almost  sure  to  be  crudely  in  the  way.  Dialogue  there 
should  hold  full  sway.  And  so,  the  cycle  of  art  closing 
upon  itself,  one  comes  to  the  purely  objective  form,  the 
most  recent  and  most  artificial  style  of  all,  which  echoes 
the  possible  form  of  the  earliest  tales.  In  this  modern 
reproduction  the  author  sternly  debars  himself  from  our 
society,  tells  his  tale  in  an  absolutely  impersonal  and 
objective  way,  and  leaves  us  to  draw  our  own  conclusions. 
Personally  I  am  not  sufficiently  keen  or  sufficiently  vain 
to  enjoy  this  style — or  perhaps  not  sufficiently  convinced 
of  the  unfailing  accuracy  of  our  emotional  mathematics. 
Those  gesticulating  phantom  figures  disturb  my  com- 
fort, more  than  they  stir  my  thought.  Am  I  interpreting 
them  all  aright,  and  as  the  author  intended  they  should 

262 


STYLE 

be?  There  is  no  use  explaining  to  a  reader  that  they 
are  real  life,  and  that  he  must  endeavor  to  measure  them 
as  he  would  in  life.  To  the  reader  they  are  not  real. 
Even  though  they  be  photographs  rather  than  creations, 
yet  they  are  figures  caught  by  a  camera  other  than  his 
eye,  impressed  upon  a  brain  that  thought  other  things 
of  them  than  he  would  have  thought,  and  translated  by 
that  brain  into  another  medium  than  sight,  into  language, 
a  vehicle  notoriously  imperfect  for  conveying  ideas.  Con- 
fronting all  these  causes  for  misunderstanding,  one  does 
well  to  demand  a  guide.  In  each  doubtful  situation  we 
ask  to  know  what  the  author  thinks  is  meant  by  his  own 
phantasmagoria.  Then  we  can  disagree  with  him  at 
pleasure. 


263 


CHAPTER  VIII 
CONCLUSION 

The  reader  who  has  accompanied  this  examination  thus 
far,  must  have  recognized  the  difficulty  of  which  he  was 
warned  at  the  start,  that  the  advance  has  been  through  an 
uncharted  field.  In  our  forefathers'  discussions  of  the 
novel,  forms  of  nomenclature  were  adopted  hastily  for 
the  convenience  of  the  moment ;  and  these  have  persisted 
into  our  own  day.  Thus  there  exist  such  confusions  of 
name  and  incoherencies  of  division  as  were  pointed  out, 
for  example,  in  the  so-called  "historic  novel"  or  the 
"novel  of  manners."  No  one  man  to-day  is  empowered 
with  the  authority  to  sweep  all  this  away,  and  reestablish 
the  *tudy  of  fiction  on  some  accurate  basis.  Yet  it  may 
not  be  amiss  to  point  out  some  more  complete  and  funda- 
mental outline  of  division. 

Such  a  division  seems  deducible  from  the  previous 
chapters.  Of  the  six  elements  discussed,  the  last  two,  back- 
ground and  style,  are  obviously  the  externals,  the  acces- 
sories. Hence  an  earlier  generation  seized  carelessly  upon 
these  as  the  readiest  means  of  discrimination,  just  as  a 
hurried  observer  might  classify  all  buildings  not  by  their 
inner  use  but  by  their  materials,  brick  and  stone,  or  flow- 
ers by  their  colors.  To  find  a  more  logical  and  persistent 
relationship  requires  a  search  beneath  the  surface.  The 
four  other  elements  of  the  novel  reach  deep  into  its  be- 
ing, have  each  of  them  an  inherent  importance;  hence 

264 


CONCLUSION 

each  must  be  considered  in  a  division..  Three  of  them, 
however,  may  be  grouped  together ;  I  have  suggested  that 
plot  might  be  looked  on  as  a  broad  term  covering  action, 
character,  and  emotion ;  that  is,  the  ideal  plot  would  pre- 
sent an  advancing  action,  a  developing  character  and  an 
increasing  emotion.  Each  of  these  elements  stands  for  a 
moment  as  the  foremost  interest  in  each  novel,  and  then 
is  pushed  aside  for  the  next.  There  is  only  one  essential 
that  persists  through  them  all,  omnipresent,  unchallenged, 
undeniable.  That  is  verisimilitude. 

This  pervasiveness  makes  verisimilitude  the  one  unes- 
capable  foundation  upon  which  to  base  a  permanent  di- 
vision; though  we  may  gladly  employ  such  further  aid 
as  can  be  gathered  from  the  threefold  "plot."  That  is  to 
say,  the  true  difference  between  novels  lies,  as  this  book 
has  sought  to  show,  not  in  their  choice  of  time  or  locality, 
not  in  the  nature  of  their  background,  whether  61  tEe 
mansion  or  the  slum,  not  even  in  their  artistic  method, 
analytic  or  dramatic,  but  in  their  varying  outlook  upon  life, 
their  varying  picture  of  the  human  soul  and  the- human 
fate.  Their  essential  separation  lies  in  their  attitude  to- 
ward universal  truth,  the  amount  and  the  portion  of  uni- 
versal law  which  each  perceives  and  presents. 

This  view  brings  forward  as  the  principle  of  division 
that  quotation  from  Brander  Matthews  to  which  I  have 
already  referred :  "Fiction  dealt  first  with  the  Impossi- 
ble, then  with  the  Improbable,  next  with  the  Probable, 
and  now  at  last  with  the  Inevitable."  This  does  not  mean 
that  in  advancing  to  the  later  forms  the  earlier  types  have 
been  left  behind.  All  of  them  still  remain  with  us — all, 
that  is,  except  the  Impossible.  For  that,  verisimilitude 

265 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

has  led  our  age  to  substitute  the  mystic,  the  imaginable, 
the  unknown.  Indeed,  I  doubt  if  any  people  ever  dealt 
consciously  with  the  impossible.  They  merely  did  as  we 
to-day,  they  strove  to  peer  beyond  the  veil,  and  play  with 
the  unknown.  We,  looking  back,  call  their  tales  impossi- 
ble ;  but  shall  not  a  future  age  say  the  same  of  our  poetic 
fancies,  our  semi-scientific  excursions  beyond  the  border- 
line? In  separating  novels,  therefore,  I  would  regard  the 
Impossible  as  a  variation  of  the  Improbable,  but  retain- 
ing the  fourfold  division,  would  speak  also  of  the  Acci- 
dental. 

That  is  to  say,  man's  outlook  upon  facts,  upon  truth, 
upon  life,  is  really  fourfold.  First  he  sees  the  world  as 
the  child  does,  a  mere  patchwork  of  sounds  and  colors. 
Each  pretty  color  is  viewed  separately,  and  for  its  own 
attractiveness;  no  thought  of  the  harmony,  the  causes, 
the  relation  of  one  patch  to  others,  disturbs  the  interest. 
Wherever  the  glance  chances  to  fall  there  it  remains,  ad- 
miring, until  chance-turned  otherwhere.  The  gazer  deals 
only  with  the  Accidental.  Soon,  however,  both  child  and 
man  begin  to  note  a  relation  between  the  scattered  bits  of 
color,  how  one  springs  from  another,  destroys  another. 
They  observe  startling  results,  striking  connections,  the 
bizarre,  the  unusual,  the  Improbable.  With  increasing  in- 
terest comes  the  desire  to  understand,  comes  scientific 
study.  As  man  grows  thoughtful  and  experienced,  he 
pushes  away  the  odd  and  the  unusual,  to  examine  the 
usual,  to  meditate  upon  its  underlying  laws.  He  deals  by 
preference  with  the  Probable.  Yet  beyond  this  comes  the 
rtage  when  each  of  us  begins  to  see,  or  thinks  he  sees, 
portion  of  the  meaning  of  it  all.  He  eagerly  as- 
266 


CONCLUSION 

serts  that  such  and  such  are  really  the  laws,  the  condi- 
tions, of  existence.    He  points  to  the  Inevitable. 

Accepting  this  fourfold  classification  as  a  groundwork 
one  comes  upon  various  subdivisions.  In  each  class  was 
developed  some  early  and  perhaps  imperfect  form  of 
novel.  In  each  there  is  a  modern  partly  perfected  state. 
And  in  each  there  have  been  intermediate  forms  more  or 
less  marked  in  differentiation.  The  division  may  be  ex- 
pressed in  tabular  form  as  follows: 

I    THE  NOVEL  OF  INCIDENT 

This  is  the  tale  of  the  Accidental,  the  tale  that  is  al- 
most whplly  lacking  in  sequence,  in  plot.  It  deals  with 
the  moment  only,  with  the  scene,  with  adventures  chance- 
tossed  together.  What  it  sees  may  be  wholly  true,  but 
the  truth  is  seen  isolated,  unrelated  to  the  larger  verities 
of  life.  The  outlook  upon  existence  is  that  of  the  child. 
There  is  no  effort  to  summon  a  reader  to  the  probing  of 
life's  inner  deeps.  Such  a  work  may  be  either : 

1.  The  "pictures  from  life"  tale,  a  collection  of  wholly 
detached  pictures,  highly  colored  with  excitement,  with 
poetry,  or  with  humor,  and  only  united  by  depicting  some 
of  the  same  people  in  each.    This  form  reaches  its  high- 
est expression  in  such  works  as  "Pickwick  Papers." 

2.  The  biographical  tale,  the  series  of  experiences  ter- 
minable at  any  moment  by  old  age  or  marriage  or  re- 
pentance, and  only  united  by  following  the  career  of  a 
central  personage,  as  in  Smollett's  "Roderick  Random." 
This  is  still  largely  a  "pictures  from  life"  tale,  background 
being  prominent.     Several  of  our  recent  historic  novels 

267 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

have  been  notably  successful  in  this  form,  as  for  instance 
Conan  Doyle's  "White  Company." 

The  real  novel  of  adventure,  unified  by  setting  forth 
some  definite,  difficult  task,  a  goal  toward  which  the  hero 
struggles  with  final  achievement  or  defeat,  though  he 
may  encounter  endless  accidental  interventions  on  the 
road.  Of  this  class  are  Stanley  Weyman's  "Under  the 
Red  Robe,"  or  Kipling's  "Naulahka." 

II    THE  NOVEL  OF  ARTIFICE 

This  is  the  tale  of  the  Improbable,  the  story  that  de- 
pends chiefly  upon  plot,  external  or  action  plot.  It  deals 
with  surprise,  with  mystery,  with  the  unexpected.  It  sees 
truth  perhaps,  but  only  the  oddities  of  truth,  where  verity 
fixes  a  feeble  hope  upon  coincidence,  or  upon  ignorance, 
and  usually  gropes  blindly  toward  that  comfortable 
travesty  of  material  payment  for  immaterial  efforts  which 
man  miscalls  "poetic  justice."  Such  a  novel  may  be 
either: 

1.  The  story  of  fear,  which  holds  the  excited  reader 
shivering  in  darkness,  by  means  of  hinted  horrors  or  by 
spectres  frankly  visible.    Such  visions  haunt  the  "Castle 
of  Otranto"  and  Mrs.  Radcliffe's  more  elaborate  work. 

2.  The  story  of  intrigue,  of  cunning  bad  folks  and 
rather   idiotic  good  ones,  of   subtle    schemes,   intricate 
knaveries,  and  surprising  secrets  coming  to  light  at  just 
the  dramatic  moment  needful  for  the  triumph  of  virtue 
and  defeat  of  vice.    If  one  may  do  so  without  seeming 
to  belittle  the  work,  I  would  suggest  "Tom  Jones"  as 
showing  the  perfection  of  this  sort  of  plot. 

268 


CONCLUSION 

3.  The  detective  story,  in  which  the  plot  is  deliberately 
presented  upsidedown.     Consequences  are  first   shown, 
and  then  worked  backward  to  their  causes,  the  steps  being 
all  suggested,  yet  made  as  unexpected  as  possible,  that  the 
reader  may  exercise  his  own  wits  and  join  the  detective 
in  an  effort  to  solve  the  riddle. 

4.  The  novel  of  the  unknown,  the  story  of  strange  sug- 
gestion, which  reaches  beyond  man's  knowledge  of  his 
cosmos,  not  to  terrify  and  amaze,  but  to  analyze  and 
understand,  to  suggest  possibilities  and  questions,  to  see 
human   nature    in   new   lights,   as    Hawthorne   does    in 
"Septimius   Felton,"   or  Mr.   Wells   in   his  "War  with 
Mars." 

Ill    THE  NOVEL  OF  ORDINARY  LIFE 

This  is  the  study  of  the  Probable,  the  work  that  re- 
jects the  primitive  appeal  to  wonder,  to  the  "strange 
thing"  of  the  Egyptian  "chief-reciter."  Fearing  the 
false  presentation  of  life  in  the  over  employment  of  "sur- 
prise," the  author  refuses  to  deal  in  coincidence  or  even 
in  the  unusual,  and  insists  that  fiction  shall  be  less  strange 
than  truth.  His  work  concerns  itself  less  with  action 
than  with  character  and  with  the  simpler  emotions. 
Under  this  heading  may  be  classed : 

I.  The  novel  of  purpose,  a  name  which  I  retain  here 
only  because  of  its  established  vogue,  and  by  which  I 
mean  the  sermon,  the  tractate,  which  has  adopted  some- 
thing of  the  novel's  form  only  to  reach  an  audience.  This 
form  deliberately  sets  out  to  convince  the  reader  of  some 
doctrine,  some  one  improvement  which  is  to  be  accepted 

269 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

and  established  as  part  of  our  actual,  ordinary  lives.  Such 
an  argument  can  not  be  built  on  chance  or  on  coinci- 
dence; for  its  aim  is  to  make  its  goal  seem  as  obvious 
and  undeniable  as  possible.  This  goal  must  also  be  made 
to  look  as  attractive  as  possible,  so  that  it  may  persuade 
while  it  convinces.  Rousseau's  "Emile"  may  be  quoted 
as  a  case  in  point,  or  Mrs.  Ward's  "Robert  Elsmere,"  or 
Mrs.  Sarah  Grand's  vehemently  pointed  works. 

2.  The  photographic  novel,  a  name  which  seems  pref- 
erable to  "realistic"  because  the  latter  term  has  been  ex- 
panded by  some  writers  to  a  much  broader  use.     The 
term  is  here  employed  for  the  novel  which  adopts  photog- 
raphy as  its  ideal,  and  insists  on  showing  us  things  as 
they  actually  are,  or  at  least  as  they  appeared  at  the 
moment  when  the  novelist  was  looking.    The  demand  of 
such  a  work  is  for  facts,  not  the  understanding  of  fact. 
Its  aim  is  to  lay  life — sometimes  a  very  ugly  side  of  life — 
before  the  reader  like  a  panorama,  leaving  that  panorama 
to  make  what  impression  it  may,  whether  of  contempt, 
of  enjoyment,   or   of   yearning   toward    reform.     The 
Goncourt    brothers,    or    Zola,    offer    here    the    typical 
examples. 

3.  The  true  novel  of  common  life,  which  has  no  con- 
centrated, narrow  aim  whatever,  but  seeks  simply  to  de- 
pict our  everyday  selves  in  everyday  attire.    The  art  of 
such  a  book  lies  in  its  simplification ;  the  value  depends 

on  the  insight.    Our  casual,  rather  tawdry  dramas  are 

5  divested  of  the  multifarious  commonplace  which 

ides  them  from  our  view,  and  shown  as  they  really 

arc.     Jane  Austen's  works  are  the  perfection  of  the 

form. 

270 


CONCLUSION 

IV    THE  NOVEL  OF  THE  INEVITABLE 

This  is  the  study  that  probes  the  underlying  laws 
of  existence,  that  seeks  to  know  the  spirit,  and  sometimes 
as  if  by  sudden  inspiration  grasps  its  reward.  Such  a 
work  concerns  itself  solely  with  internal  plot,  with  the 
meaning  of  life,  not  with  its  surface  expression.  Here  the 
reader  faces  the  growth  and  deterioration  of  personality, 
the  development  of  the  human  spirit  through  suffering 
or  joy  or  toil.  The  author  reaches  toward  those  hidden, 
intangible  dramas  of  the  soul,  wherein  emotion,  surging 
up  beyond  human  control,  ceases  to  be  amenable  to 
chance  and  to  convention,  asserts  itself  as  the  supreme 
power  and  beats  with  passionate  defiance  against  the 
thrones  of  the  unknown,  unchanging  Fates. 

This  challenge  of  the  universe  was  in  its  earliest  form 
represented  by: 

1.  The  novel  of  sentiment,  which  dealt  wholly  with 
the  ideal.     Such  works  were  in  effect  a  confused  and 
doubtful  protest  against  life  as  life  persistently  reveals 
itself  in  commonplace.     Mackenzie's  "Man  of  Feeling" 
made  such  protest.    Goethe's  "Werther"  can  not  wholly 
escape  being  classified  here.    Next  came 

2.  The  true  novel  of  character;  that  is,  the  one  which 
studies  the  development  of  character  under  the  stress  of 
life's  tragedies  and  comedies,  which  shows  events  not 
for  themselves,  but  to  mark  their  effect  upon  the  human 
soul,  as  in  "The  Vicar  of  Wakefield"  or  Goethe's  "Wil- 
helm  Meister"  or  most  of  Thackeray's  work. 

3.  The  problem  novel,  a  form  easily  confused  with  the 
novel  of  purpose,  because  both  present  some  difficulty  of 

271 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

life.  But  with  the  purpose  novel  this  is  some  outward 
difficulty,  some  convention  of  society,  which  is  attacked 
and  theoretically  overthrown.  A  puppet  giant  is  built 
up  on  purpose  to  be  knocked  down.  Naturally  he  is 
shown  at  his  ugliest,  and  his  fall  is  accompanied  by 
enthusiastic  applause.  The  problem  novel  attains  no  such 
self-congratulatory  triumph.  It  faces  some  inherent  diffi- 
culty that  lies  within,  in  human  nature  itself.  The  giant 
here  is  real,  he  will  not  down ;  and  so  perforce  the  novel 
runs  away  and  leaves  him  threatening.  In  thus  endeavor- 
ing to  look  man's  mightiest  tyrants  in  the  face,  the  problem 
novel  can  not  treat  them  with  scorn,  can  not  vilify  nor  in- 
sult them,  because  it  knows  not  whether  they  be  good  or 
evil.  Heaping  curses  on  the  Inevitable  is  like  a  child 
thrusting  out  its  tongue,  as  easy  and  as  idle.  The  effort 
of  the  problem  novel  is  just  to  look,  to  understand. 
Tolstoi's  work  deals  thoughtfully  with  this  Inevitable. 
Gorki  has  essayed  it. 

4.  Allied  to  the  problem  novel  there  is  a  higher  form 
for  which  one  can  scarcely  as  yet  attempt  a  name.  It 
is  that  epic  form  wherein  man  rises  superior  to  existence, 
wherein  a  human  soul,  divested  of  every  last  trapping  and 
disguise,  denuded  of  every  adventitious  aid,  is  seen  to 
measure  itself  at  fullest  height  against  all  the  bitterness 
and  fruitlessness  in  life.  Overthrowing  or  overthrown, 
the  lone  spirit  stands  like  Antaeus,  becoming  ever  mightier 
in  its  wrestle  against  Fate,  until  it  has  reached  out  beyond 
our  ken,  and  the  author,  stooping  to  recall  the  human 
environment  of  the  strife,  must  dismiss  this  as  a  little 
matter.  I  am  not  sure  any  novel  quite  reaches  to  this 
height ;  but  the  "Scarlet  Letter"  is  of  the  type  I  mean. 

272 


CONCLUSION 

So  despite  all  its  complexity  is  Thackeray's  "The  New- 
comes,"  and  despite  all  its  prolixity  Richardson's 
"Clarissa  Harlowe." 

This  fourfold  division  seems  thus  to  give  a  practical 
basis  for  the  separation  of  novels.  Of  course  the  allied 
forms  shade  into  one  another.  Some  novels  can  not  even 
be  confined  under  one  of  the  four  main  heads ;  but  gen- 
erally speaking  these  hybrid  forms  are  ineffective.  The 
character  novel,  for  instance,  has  sometimes  employed 
intrigue.  "Tom  Jones"  stands  as  the  great  example, 
though  critics  who  rank  Fielding's  character  drawing 
above  his  plot,  may  ignore  the  intrigue  and  class  this 
character  masterpiece  with  Jane  Austen's  work,  or  even 
under  our  fourth  head.  I  think,  however,  that  the  most 
ardent  admirer  of  "Tom  Jones"  will  admit  that  its  di- 
vided aim  is  a  misfortune,  that  the  characters  of  both 
Blifil  and  Mrs.  Blifil  are  injured  for  the  plot.  So  is 
the  heroine;  so  Allworthy,  who  becomes  a  blinded  fool. 
5ven  Tom's  consistency  is  strained  a  bit  to  enable  him 
to  repent  at  the  right  moment.  I  pause  on  this  point, 
only  to  emphasize  the  value  of  a  division  which  thus 
enforces  a  consistent  attitude  toward  truth.  If  you  are 
playing  with  coincidence,  you  can  not  analyze  the  soul; 
for  that  stands  ajnpve  coincidence. 

So  also  the  novel  of  adventure  has  sometimes  sought 
supernatural  terrors.  But  if  the  hero  of  adventure  is  to 
be  a  good,  swashbuckling  hero,  he  can  not  yield  even 
to  ghosts.  He  must  defy  them.  And  then  where  is  the 
reader's  fear?  So,  in  the  photographic  novel,  the  writer 
can  not  venture  too  far  into  asseverations  of  emotion  or 

273 


THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  NOVEL 

analyses  of  character ;  for  there  he  must  probe  deeps  eye 
can  not  see,  he  who  depends  solely  on  the  eye. 

It  is  not  my  purpose  to  assert  that  any  one  of  the  dozen 
forms  I  have  differentiated  is  greater  than  another,  but 
only  that  they  are  essentially  different,  and  that  each 
must  be  consistent  with  itself.  All  novelists  may  be  seek- 
ing "the  great  god  Verity,"  but  they  have  widely  differ- 
ing ideas  as  to  the  appearance  of  their  deity.  If  I  may 
fall  back  upon  my  earlier  figure  of  the  fair,  veiled  lady 
Truth,  her  many  knightly  champions  must  remain  each 
faithful  to  his  own  conception  of  his  lady.  The  novelist, 
like  any  other  cobbler,  must  "stick  to  his  last."  With 
whatever  view  of  universal  law  he  settles  himself  to  write, 
in  whatever  attitude  toward  life,  that  view,  that  attitude] 
he  must  maintain. 

Unity  here  reasserts  itself  under  another  guise.  I 
would  close  as  I  began  by  insisting  that  in  these  two 
principles,  in  truth  and  unity,  truth  to  life  underlying 
superficial  lack  of  fact,  and  unity  of  purpose  underlying 
superficial  variety  of  expression,  in  these  two  are  found 
the  cardinal  principles  of  the  novel. 

THE   END 


274 


APPENDIX 

BIBLIOGRAPHY 

The  general  reader  may  be  assumed  to  be  fairly  acquainted 
with  most  of  the  books  discussed  in  the  preceding  pages;  and 
the  critic  familiar  with  the  great  masterworks  may  be  content 
to  ramble  through  this  "book  about  books,"  recalling  pleasant 
hours  spent  with  the  originals,  and  balancing  his  judgment  step 
by  step  against  the  present  writer's. 

To  the  unprepared  student,  however,  whether  in  the  college  or 
the  library,  any  critical  book  is  apt  to  prove  a  dangerous  snare. 
He  is  over-ready  to  accept  some  one  else's  opinion  about  books, 
hoping  thus  to  escape  many  a  lengthy  journey  through  the  master- 
works  themselves.  One  can  not  too  strongly  urge  that  the  value 
of  a  critical  work  is  wholly  lost  to  the  student  if  he  does  not 
familiarize  himself  with  the  texts  discussed. 

How  extensive  the  supplementary  course  of  reading  should  be 
in  the  present  case,  must  depend  on  circumstances.  I  have  not 
as  a  rule  found  it  excessive  to  ask  students  to  read  one  novel  a 
week  throughout  the  collegiate  year.  But  the  amount  of  time 
which  different  people  devote  to  the  reading  of  a  single  novel 
varies  to  an  extent  almost  incredible.  I  have  known  one  student 
to  plod  steadily  for  a  week  through  a  brief  tale  which  another 
finished  in  three  hours.  Yet  both  were  interested,  both  earnest, 
and  I  am  not  at  all  sure  which  drew  most  benefit  from  the  book, 
or  which  closed  it  with  the  better  understanding  of  the  whole. 

I  would  suggest  that,  as  these  pages  are  gone  through,  the 
student  should  read  at  least  the  following  works,  each  as  it  is 
mentioned  in  the  text: 

WITH  PART  ONE 
Egyptian  Tales  by  W.  Flinders  Petrie 

Greek  Romances  transl.  by  Rowland  Smith  (Bohn's  Library) 
The  Lay  of  the  Nibelungs  transl.  by  Alice  Horton 
Amadis  of  Gaul,  Southey's  abridgment 
Don  Quixote  by  Cervantes 

275 


APPENDIX 

History  of  the  Novel  previous  to  the  Seventeenth  Century  by 
F.  M.  Warren 

Oroonoko  by  Mrs.  Aphra  Behn 
.  Gil  BUu  by  Le  Sage 

Colonel  Jacque  by  Defoe 

Pamela  by  Richardson 

WITH  PART  TWO 

The  English  Novel  by  W.  Raleigh 

Joseph  Andrews  by  Fielding 

Clarissa  Harlowe  by  Richardson 

Tom  Jones  by  Fielding 

Roderick  Random  by  Smollett 

Candide  by  Voltaire 
,  Vicar  of  Wakcncld  by  Goldsmith 

Sorrows  of  Werther  by  Goethe 

Evelina  by  Frances  Burney 

M \steries  of  Udolpho  by  Mrs.  Radcliffe 

Pride  and  Prejudice  by  Jane  Austen 

Qucntin  Durward  by  Scott 

Hunchback  of  Notre  Dame  by  Victor  Hugo 

Pere  Goriot  by  Balzac 

Pickwick  Papers  by  Dickens 

Henry  Esmond  by  Thackeray 

Jane  Eyre  by  Charlotte  Bronte 

Hypatia  by  Charles  Kingsley 

Scarlet  Letter  by  Hawthorne 

Silas  Marner  by  George  Eliot 

Rise  of  Silas  Lapham  by  W.  D.  Howells 

The  Master  of  Ballantrae  by  R.  L.  Stevenson 
This  list  could  of  course  be  greatly  expanded  to  advantage, 

both  in  the  way  of  stories  and  of  critical  works.    A  supplementary 

list  of  the  former  would  be: 

Beowulf,  Arnold's  edition 

Song  of  Roland 

Morte  Darthur  by  Sir  Thomas  Malory 

Gesta  Romanorum,  ed.  by  C.  Swan  (Bohn  Library) 

Decameron  by  Boccaccio 

Early  Prose  Romances,  ed.  by  H.  Morley  (Carisbrooke  Library) 

Rosalynde  by  Thomas  Lodge 

Arcadia  by  Sir  Philip  Sidney 

Diana  by  George  de  Montemayor  (transl.  by  T.  Wilson,  1596) 

Lasarillo  de  Tormes 

Pilgrim's  Progress  by  John  Bunyan 

The  New  Heloise  by  J.  J.  Rousseau 

Castle  of  Otranto  by  Walpole 

Caleb  Williams  by  W.  Godwin 

276 


APPENDIX 

Castle  Rackrent  by  Maria  Edgeworth 

Frankenstein  by  Mrs.  Shelley 
/  Mysteries  of  Paris  by  Eugene  Sue 

Three  Musketeers  by  Dumas 

Deerslayer  by  Cooper 

Madame  Bovary  by  Flaubert 

Les  Miserables  by  Victor  Hugo 

Vanity  Fair  by  Thackeray 

Barchcster  Towers  by  Trollope 

Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel  by  Meredith 

Far  from  the  Madding  Crowd  by  Thomas  Hardy 

Anna  Karenina  by  Tolstoi 

The  Downfall  by  Zola 
The  student  will  probably  find  the  following  to  be  the  most 

useful  and  easily  accessible  critical  works: 
4  Sir  Walter  Besant,  The  Art  of  Fiction  (London,  1884) 

W.  L.  Cross,  The  Development  of  the  English  Novel  (1899) 

W.  J.  Dawson,  Makers  of  English  Fiction  (1905) 

John  Dunlop,  History  of  Prose  Fiction  (revised  ed.  by  H.  Wilson, 
1896) 

W.  D.  Howells,  Criticism  and  Fiction   (New  York,  1892) 

J.  J.  Jusserand,  English  Novel  in  the  Time  of- Shakespeare  (1890) 

Sidney  Lanier,  English  Novel  and  its  Development  (1883)  ,\$\ 

Brander  Matthews,  The  Historical  Novel  (1901) 

Brander  Matthews,  Aspects  of  Fiction  (1896) 

Bliss  Perry,  A  Study  of  Prose  Fiction  (1902) 

Walter  Raleigh,  The  English  Novel  (1894) 

F.  H.  Stoddard,  The  Evolution  of  the  English  Novel  (1900) 

F.  M.  Warren,  History  of  the  Novel  previous  to  the  Seventeenth 
Century  (1895) 

B.  W.  Wells,  A  Century  of  French  Fiction  (1898)* 

A  fuller  bibliography  of  critical  works  upon  the  novel  and  its 
predecessors  would  include: 

Nicolas  Antonio,  Bibliotheca  Hispana  Nova  (Rome,  1672) 
Nicolas  Antonio,  Bibliotheca  Hispana  Vetus  (Rome,  1672) 

B.  C.    Aribau,    Vida   de   Cervantes    (in    Bibliotica   de   Autores 
Espanoles,   Madrid,   1846) 

Ernest  Baker,  A  descriptive  Guide  to  the  best  Fiction  (London, 
1903) 

Mrs.  A.  Barbauld  (editor),  Correspondence  of  Samuel  Richard- 
son (London,  1804) 

C.  R.  Barrett,  Short  Story  Writing  (1898) 

M.  de  Bastide   (editor),  Bibliotheque  des  Romans   (1775-87) 
Wm.  Beckford,  Modern  Novel  Writing  or  the  Elegant  Enthusiast 
(London,  circa  1785) 

277 


APPENDIX 

H   A.  Beers.  A  History  of  English  Romanticism  (1899,  1901) 
Sir  Walter  Besant,  The  Art  of  Fiction  (London,  1884) 

x  Bobertag,  Geschichte  des  Romans  (1884) 

Nicolas  Boileau,  Les  Heros  de  Roman  (works  by  Didot,  1862) 
Paul  Bourget,  Reflexions  sur  I'  Art  du  Roman  (Paris) 
Andre  Le  Breton,  Le  Roman  au  dixseptieme  Siecle  (Paris,  1890) 
W.  C  Brownell,  French  Art  (Chapter  IV) 
Ferdinand  Brunetiere,  Le  Roman  Naturaliste  (Paris,  1893) 
Ferdinand  Brunetiere,  Manuel  de  la  Litterature  franqaise  (Paris, 


Caroll  Bryce,  A  Lost  Function  in  Romance  (New  York,  1883) 
Cessi  Camillo,  Legende  Sibaritiche  (Firenze,  1901) 
H.  S.  Canby,  The  Short  Story  (Yale  Studies  in  English,  no.  12) 
Thomas  Carlyle,  On  the  Nibelungen  Lied  (Westminster  Review, 

1831) 

F.  W.  Chandler,  Romances  of  Roguery  (N.  Y.  U.  Studies,  1879) 
Jean  Chapelain,  De  la  Lecture  des  vieux  Romans  (Paris,  1870) 
A.  Chassang,  Histoire  du  Roman  dans  I'Antiquite  (Paris,  1862) 
H.  B.  Clarke.  The  Spanish  Rogue  Story  (Oxford  Studies,  1900) 
Sherwin  Cody,  ThfJVorld's  Greatest  Short  Stories  (1902) 
w  F.  M.  Crawford,  The  Novel:    What  it  is  (New  York,  1893) 

»,  W.  H.  Crawshaw,  Literary  Interpretation  of  Life 

W.  L,  Cross  in  The  New  International  Encyclopedia,  Vol.  14, 

p.  660  et  seq.  (1904) 

Didot  Freres,  Erotici  Scriptores  (Paris) 
E.  von  Dobschutz,  Der  Roman  in  der  altchristlichen  Literatur 

(Deutsche  Rundschau,  Vol.  18) 
Edward  Dowden,  Studies  in  Literature 
A.  Ebert.  Allgemeine  Geschichte  der  Literatur  des  Mittelalter  im 

Abendlande  (Leipzig,  1874) 

George  Ellis,  Specimens  of  Ancient  Metrical  Romances  (Bohn) 
Adolph  Erman,  Der  Mdrchen  des  Papyrus  Westcar  (Berlin,  1890) 
L.  Morcl-Fatio,  introduction  to  Lazarillo  de  Tormes  (Paris,  1886) 
*        William  Forsyth,  Novels  and  Novelists  of  the  Eighteenth  Century 

(New  York,  1871) 

Gustav  Freytag,  Technique  of  the  Drama 
Rudolf  Fuerst,  Die  Vorldufer  der  modernen  Novelle  (1897) 
Adolf  Gaspary,  Geschichte  der  Italienischen  Literatur  (Strasburg, 


~"/ 

Theophile  Gautier,  Histoire  du  Romantisme  (1872) 

Pascual  de  Gayangos,  Libros  de  Caballerias,  introduction  to  Vol. 

40  (Madrid,  1857) 
Gayley  &  Scott,  Methods  and  Materials  of  Literary  Criticism 

Go5se,  Seventeenth  Century  Studies  (London) 
S.  Baring-Gould,  Early  Christian  Greek  Romances  (Contemporary 
Review,  Vol.  30) 

278 


APPENDIX 

W.   M.  Griswold,   Descriptive  Lists  of  American   and  Foreign 

Novels  (Cambridge,  Mass.,  1891) 

Angelo  de  Gubernatis,  Storia  del  Romanzo  (Milano,  1883) 
W.  M.  Hart,  Hawthorne  and  the  Short  Story  (1900) 
Rudolf  Hercher,  Erotici  Scriptores  Greed  (Lipsiae,  1858-9) 
Hermes  Magazine,  Vol.  28,  The  Nimrod  fragment 
J.  J.  Hess,  Der  'Demotische  Roman  von  Stne  Ha-mus 
W.  D.  Howells;  Literature  and  Life  (New  York,  1902) 
P.  D.  Huet,  De  L'Origine  des  Romans  (Paris,  1678) 
R.  Kurd,  Letters  on  Chivalry  and  Romance  (1762) 
Henry  James,  The  Art  of  Fiction  (in  Partial  Portraits,  1888)      l/  *^ 
H.  A.  Junghaas,  Das  Nibelungenlied  (Leipzig) 
Heinrich   Keiter,    Versuch  einer   Theorie  des  Romans  und  der 

Erzdhlkunst  (Paderborn,  1876) 
W.  P.  Ker,  Epic  and  Romance  (1897) 
G.  Korting,  Boccaccio's  Leben  und  Werke 
M.  Landau,  Quellen  des  Decameron  (Stuttgart,  1884) 
Dr.  Landman,  Shakspere  and  Euphuism  (1884) 
S.  L.  Lee,  Euphuism  (in  the  Athenaeum,  1883) 
Prof.  Maiden,  Knight's  Quarterly  Magazine,  Vol.  I,  page  277 

et  seq. 
P.  H.  Mallet,  Monumens  de  la  Mythologie  des  Celtes  (Part  II  of 

L'histoire  de  Dannemarc,  1755) 
G.  C.  C.  Maspero,  Les  Contes  Populates  de  L'Egypte  Ancienne 

(Paris,  1882) 

David  Masson,  British  Novelists  and  their  Styles  (1859) 
Brander  Matthews,  The  Philosophy  of  the  Short  Story  (1901)  .. 

Guy  de  Maupassant,  Pierre  et  Jean  (introduction,  1888) 
L.  F.  A.  Maury,  Essai  sur  les  legendes  pieuses  du  moyen  age 

(Paris,   1843) 

L.  E.  Moland,  Nouvelles  fran^aises  du  136  siecle  (Paris,  1856) 
L.  E.  Moland,  Nouvelles  franqaises  du  I4e  siecle  (Paris,  1858) 
J.  Moore,  View  of  the  Commencement  and  Progress  of  Romance 

(introduction  to  Smollett's  Works,  London,  1797)  , 

R.  G.  Moulton,  Four  Years  of  Novel  Reading  (1896)  * 

Frank  Norris,  On  the  Art  of  Writing  Fiction  (1903) 
J.  Oliphant,  Victorian  Novelists  (1899) 

H.  Oesterley,  introduction  to  Gesta  Romanorum  (Berlin,  1872) 
T.  S.  Omond,  The  Triumph  of  Romance 

Gaston  Paris,  Litterature  franqaise  au  moyen  age  (1888)  / 

Walter  Pater  in  Macmillan's  Magazine  (Vol.  35)  <r 

T.  S.  Perry,  English  Literature  in  the  Eighteenth  Century  (New 

York,  1883) 
W.  L.  Phelps,  Beginnings  of  the  English  Romantic  Movement 

(1893) 

E.  A.  Poe  in  Graham's  Magazine  (1842) 
W.  T.  Price,  Technique  of  the  Drama  (1892) 

279 


APPENDIX 

dmra  Reeve,  Progress  of  Romance  (Colchester,  1785) 

E.  Rohdc,  Der  Griechische  Roman  (Leipzig,  1876) 

C  Resell,  Novelistas  posteriores  a  Cervantes  (Madrid,  1851) 

T.  Roscoe,  The  German  Novelists  (London,  1826) 

T.  Roscoe,  The  Spanish  Novelists  (London,  1832) 

T.  Roscoe,  The  Italian  Novelists 

P.  Russell,  A  Guide  to  British  and  American  Novels  (London, 

1895) 

Girault  de  St.  Fargeau,  Revue  des  Romans  (Paris,  1839) 
G.  Saintsbury,  The  Historical  Novel  (in  Essays  in  English  Litera- 
ture, 1895) 
W.  Scherer,  A  History  of  German  Literature  (English  edition, 

1886) 

Erich  Schmidt,  Richardson,  Rousseau  und  Goethe  (Jena,  1875) 
A.  Schulz,  Die  Sagen  von  Merlin  (Halle,  1853) 
Sir  Walter  Scott,  Peveril  of  the  Peak  (introduction) 
W.  E.  Simonds,  Introduction  to  English  Fiction  (1894) 
Friedrich   Spielhagen,   Beitrdge  zur   Theorie  und    Technik    des 

Romans  (Leipzig,  1879-80) 
Mme.  de  Stael,  An  Essay  on  Fictions   (introduction  to  Zulma, 

London,  1813) 
R.  L.   Stevenson,  A  Humble  Remonstrance   (in  Memories  and 

Portraits) 

R.  L.  Stevenson,  A  Gossip  on  Romance  (in  Memories  and  Por- 
traits) 

F.  H.  Stoddard,  A  Study  of  the  Novel  (1901) 
T.  A.  Symonds,  Italian  Literature 

D.  G.  Thompson,  Philosophy  of  Fiction  in  Literature  (1890) 

W.  T.  Thorns,  Ancient  English  Fictions   (1827) 

W.  J.  Thorns,  Early  English  Prose  Romances  (1858) 

George  Ticknor,  History  of  Spanish  Literature  (Boston,  1864) 

Bayard  Tuckerman,  History  of  English  Prose  Fiction  (1882) 

P.  Tunic,  Studien  zur  mittelenglischen  Romance  (Breslau,  1900) 

A.  F.  Villemain,  Collection  de  Romans  Grecs  (Paris,  1822) 

H.  L,  D.  Ward,  Catalogue  of  Romances  in  the  British  Museum 

( 1883-93 > 

Thomas  Warton,  History  of  English  Poetry  (Vol.  I,  p.  139  et  seq.) 
H.  E.  Watts,  'Miguel  de  Cervantes  (revised  ed.  1895) 
J.  Watts,  A  Collection  of  Novels  (London,  1721) 
H.  W.  Weber,  Metrical  Romances  of  the  XIII,  XIV  and  XV 

Centuries  (Edinburgh,  1810) 

G.  Weidner,  Der  Prosaroman  von  Joseph  d'Arimathie  (Leipzig,  '81) 
1.  W.  Wells,  Astrte  (in  Sewanee  Review,  1900) 

Barrett  Wendell,  History  of  Literature  in  America   (1901) 
C  T.  Winchester,  Principles  of  Literary  Criticism 
F.  Zarncke  (editor),  Das  Nibelungenlied 
Zola,  Le  Roman  Experimental 

280 


INDEX 


ACHILLES  Tatius,  54,  55,  57,  65,  157- 
"Adam  Bede,     144. 
Adams,  Parson,  120. 
Addison,  131,  242,  245. 
"Adventures        of      Sir      Launcelot 

Greaves,"  168,  218. 
./Esop,  45. 
"Amadis  of  Gaul,"  12,  73,  74-77,  83» 

84,  98,  211. 
"Amelia,"  169. 
"Anastasio,"  80. 
"Anastasius,"  136. 
Antonius  Diogenes,  47-51. 
"Arcadia,"  84. 
Aristotle,  3,  24. 
Arthurian  romance,  68. 
"Art  of  Fiction,"  150. 
"Asmodeus,"  95. 
"Astree,"  74. 
Austen,  Jane,  109,  133-135,  i55»  178- 

181,  200,   222,  241,  251,  252,  257, 

370. 

BACON,  Friar,  78. 

Balzac,   109,   137-139,   142,   144,   180- 

183,  189,  201,  202,  226,  238. 
Barrie,  227. 

Bashkirtseff,  Marie,  250. 
^^Baia,  Story  of,"  40-43. 
jReast  fables,  45. 
Beck  ford,   156. 
Behn,  Mrs.,  91-93. 
"Belinda,"   175,  200. 
"Ben-hur  "  234. 
"Beowulf,"  63-67,  68,  70,  71,  97,  99, 

244. 

Besant,  Sir  Walter,  115,  150. 
Bidpay,  45. 
Bird,   Frederick,   149. 
Blackmore,  145,  226. 
"Blithedale  Romance,"  260,  261. 
Boccaccio,  76,  79-82,  83,  96-99,  211- 

213. 

"Book  of  Changes,"  45. 
Bourget,  P.,  187,  189,  253. 
Breckenridge,   158. 
"Bride  of  Lammermoor,"  135. 
Bronte,  Charlotte,  143,  144,  205,  206, 

258,  259. 

Bronte,  Emily,  205,  206,  260. 
Brooke,  Henry,  160,  175. 


100,  175 

Brown,   Charles  B.,   158. 
Brownell,  Mr.,  181,  186,  242. 
Brunhild,  70. 


Brunton,  Mrs.,  173,  174,  198. 
Bulwer,  136,  139,  182,  189,  253. 
Bunyan,  92,  93. 

Burney,  Frances,   109,   132,   174-178, 
199,  221,  222,  251. 

CALASIRIS,  51-54. 

"Caleb  Williams,"   160. 

"Candide,"  128,  150,  162,  226. 

"Canterbury  Tales/'  82,  83. 

Carlyle,  69,  70,  71. 

"Castle  of  Otranto,"   129,   130,    155, 

198,  219,  268. 

"Castle  Kackrent,"  135,  200. 
Cervantes,  73,  74,  86.  167,  168. 
"Chaereas  and  Calirrhoe,     57. 
Chariclea,   51-54. 
Chariton,  57,  61. 
Charlemagne  cycle,  the,  68. 
"Charlotte  Temple,"  198. 
Chateaubriand,  197,  201,  238. 
Chaucer.  76,  81,  82,  83,  98,  99- 
"Chrysal/'  172,  258. 
"Cimon  and  Iphigenia,"  80,  81. 
"Clarissa    Harlowe,"     116-119,     127, 

?93,  195,  246-250,  273. 
Clitophon,  65. 
Coleridge,  122. 
Collins,  Wilkie,  144. 
"Colonel  Jacque,"  70,  93,  94,  214. 
"Comedie  Humaine,     138. 
"Contes    Populaires    de    L'Egypte," 

41. 
Cooper,   J.    F.,    136,    182,    183,   220, 

226,  239,  240. 
Corelli,  Marie,  21. 
"Cottagers  of  Glenburnie,"  135. 
Coventry,  Francis,  172,  173. 
Crawford,  Marion,  114,  150. 
Cross,  Professor,  7,  16,  186,  218. 
Cumberland,  Richard,  171,  172. 

"DANIEL  Deronda,"  144. 

D'Annunzio,   187. 

"Daphnis  and  Chloe,"  55,  100. 

Dawson,  147. 

Day,  Thomas,  160. 

Decameron,  the,    79-82,  83,    211-213. 

"Deerslayer,"    183. 

Defoe,   12,  79,  93,  94,   100,  107,  125, 

147,   151,  214,  226,  257,  259. 
Dercyllis,  47-50. 
De  Stael,  Mme.,  137,  178. 
Diagram  of  the  novel,  27. 


28l 


INDEX 


-Diana.-  87. 

Dkkens.  109.  140-142.  150,  161,  164, 


184.  *0 

••DinJas  and  Dercyllis."  47-51.  uoawin,   wmiam,   157,    j 

Diaraeli.  136.   139.  182.  183,  223-  Goethe,    108,   128,   129, 

SpSSey  and  Son."*  141.  Gogol,   100,   150. 

-DSrSu«ote,"  38.  84.  86,  87,  125,  %•&***&*& 


Gautier,  no,  137,  130,  202,  232,  253. 
"Gesta  Romanorum,     77. 
"Gil  Bias,"   85,  86,  94,  95- 
Godwin,  William,   157,    160. 
Goethe,    108,    128,   129,    196,  271. 


167.  168. 
"Don  Svlvio  of  Rosalba,"  168. 
"Downfall,  the,"  209. 
Doyle.  Oman.  229.  261,  268. 
Drmma  and  novel,   5,    15.    "9,    "o, 

124.  «*5 
Dumas,  109,  142,  164,  201.  229.  233, 

Dunlop'»$^History  of  Prose  Fiction," 


62. 


2t.  24.  145. 

orth,    Maria,    109,     132,     13  5, 
1 7  5- «78,    181,   199,    200,    222,   226, 

Enn.  Pierce,  136,  140,  183,  222. 
"Egyptian  Tales,'*  30. 
"Elective  Affinities/'    i28y 
Eliot.  George,  20,  144.  »7o,  181,  185- 

187.  207,  ao8,  255- 
"Eimle/    128,  175,  197,  270. 
"F.ncolpius."  59. 
"English   Novel,"    19. 

Novel    in    the    Time    of 

nove'l,  5,  6,  15,  62. 
,  use  of,  123-125. 
Erman.  Adolf,  30. 
"Eugenie  Grandet."  137. 
"Euphnes,"  38,  74.  84. 
Euripides,  57,193- 
"Evelina,     178,  199. 
"Evolution   of   the   English    Novel," 
189. 

"Fconico  and  his   Fiirtcon,"  80. 

"  Female  Quixote,"   168. 

Frrrirr.  Susan,   134. 
76. 

Firlding.  Henry,  6,  13-17,  20,  108, 
119-125.  153-155.  168-172,  181,  194- 
196,  204,  215-217,  236,  239,  245, 

*f6'  *73 
Fiefdinu.  Sarah.  173. 

Fkubert.  110,  202.  203.  238. 
"Fool  of  Quality/'  160,   175. 
Fouque.    197. 
"Frankenstein,"  158,   160. 

••FriarjBacon  and  Friar  Bungey,"  78. 
£r*r  Rush,  79- 
Fuh-hi,   45. 


•  Goldsmith,    108,    125-128,    173,    240, 

258. 

Goncpurt,  238,  270. 
Gorki.  Maxim,  272. 
Grand,  Mrs.  S.,  270. 
Graves,  Richard,  160,   168. 
"Greek  Romances,"  53,  54. 
Green,  Anna  K.,  21. 
Greene,  Robert,  84. 
Grendel,  64. 

"Grettir  the  Strong,"  65. 
Griffith,  F.  L.,  41. 
Grossi,  109. 

"Gulliver's  Travels,"  147-149,  257. 
Guy  of  Warwick,  78,  79. 

HAMILTON,  Elizabeth,  135,  226. 
Hamlet,   77,  79. 
"Hans  of  Iceland,"  137,  182. 
Hardy,  Thomas,   145,   186,   187,  220, 

"Harold,"    139. 

Harte,   Bret,   227. 

Hawthorne,   no,    143,   144,   149,   159, 

180,    206,  22$,  260,  261,  269,  272. 
Heliodprus,   51-54,  61,  87,  96. 
"Henrietta  Temple,"   182. 
"Henry,"    171,    172. 
"Henry  Esmond,     142,  164,  205,  234, 

23.5,  254- 
Hesiod,  46. 
Heywood,  Mrs.,  173. 
"Historical  Novel,  the,"  44. 
"History    of    Miss    Betsy    Thought- 

less," 173. 
"History  of  English  Prose  Fiction," 

1  6. 

"History  of  German  Literature,"  71. 
^"History  of  Pompey  the  Little,"  172, 

173. 

"History  of  Prose  Fiction,"  62. 
"History    of   the   Novel    previous   to 

the   Eighteenth   Century,"    12,    17- 

Hofmann,    109,    197. 

Homer,  46.  62,    193. 

Hope,  Anthony,  230. 

Hope,  Thomas,   136. 

Horace.  51. 

Howells,  William  D.,  20,  80,  82,  115, 

145,   167,  180,  187,  227. 
Huet,  Abbe,   13. 

Hugo,  Victor,  137-139,  209,  238,  249. 
"Humble  Remonstrance,"  19. 
Humor  in  the  novel,  22. 


282 


INDEX 


"Humphrey  Clinker,"  218. 
"Hunchback  of   Notre   Dame,"   137, 

209. 

'Hundred  Merry  Tales,"  77. 
"Hypatia,"  224,  225,  234,   235. 
"Hysminias  and  Hysmene,"  56. 

ILIAD,  63. 

Inchbald,  Mrs.,   175,   176. 

"Indiana,"    137. 

"Innocents  Abroad,"  145. 

Intrigue  in   the  novel,   21,   52,   121- 

123. 

Iphigenia,  81. 
"Isle  of  Snakes,"  65. 
"Ivanhoe,"   139. 
"Ivan  Ilyitch,     255. 

JAMBLICHUS,  52. 

Tames,  Henry,  no,   150,  187. 

"Jane  Eyre,     143,  144,  191,  192,  206, 

258. 

Johnson,  Aphra,  91-93. 
Johnson,    Samuel,    13,    125-127,    153, 

196,  226,  236,  240. 


196,  226,  236,  240. 
Johnstone,    Charles,    172,  258. 
''Jonathan  Wild,"  195. 
"Joseph  Andrews,"  6,    15,   120, 

195,   216. 
Jusserand,  M.,   12,   17,   84. 


1 68, 


"KENELM  Chillingly,"  139. 
Kin^sley,  Charles,   144,  224,  225. 
Kipling,  Rudyard,  187,  242,  244,  268. 
Kriemhild,  69-72. 

LAFAYETTE,  Mme.,  12,  13,  87-89,  95, 
*°7.  *37t  178,  190,  213,  214,  230, 
244. 

Lamartine,   238. 

Lanier,  Sidney,  18,  20,  57. 

"Last  Chouan,"  137,   182. 

"Last  Days  of  Pompeii,"   139,  182. 

Launcelot,  68,  73,   97. 

"l^azarillo  de  Tormes,"  84-86,  107. 

Lee,  Sophia,  163. 

Lennox,  Mrs.,  168,  173. 

Le  Sage,  95. 

"Les  Miserables,"  138,  182,  209. 

"Letters  of  Lindamira,"   245. 

"Life  and  Death  of  Mr.  Badman," 
93- 

"Life  in  London,"  136,  140,  183,  222. 

"Literature  and  Life,"  80,  82. 

Lodge,   Thomas,  211. 

Lokman,  45. 

Longus,  55,  58,  6r,  74,  97. 

"Lorna  Doone,"  226,  259. 

"Loves  of  Daphnis  and  Chloe,"   55. 

Lowell,   167. 


Lyly,  84 
Lysimach 


us,  80. 


MACKENZIE,  131,  173,  271. 

"Madame   Bovary,      202,  203. 

"Mahabharata,"  45. 

"Makers  of  English  Fiction,"  147. 

Manley,  Mrs.,  95. 

"Man  of  Feeling,"  131,  271. 

"Manon  Lescaut,"  93,  136,  191. 

Manu,  laws  of,  45. 

Manzoni,    109. 

"Marchen  des  Papyrus  Westcar,"  30. 

Marivaux,   12,  95,  99,  193. 

Mark  Twain,  145. 

Marryat,   136. 

"Martyrs,  the,"  238. 

Maspero,  30,  41. 

Matthews,    Brander,    44,    114,    123, 

265. 

Maturin,  158,  198. 
Maupassant,   no,  185,  244. 
"Mefmoth,"   158. 
Meredith,  George,  145,  187,  242. 
Merimee,  no,   137,    139,  202,  253. 
"Middlemarch,"   144. 
Milesian  tales,  the,  46. 
"Mill  on  the  Floss,"  144. 
"Modern  Chivalry,"   158. 
"Moll   Flanders,"  93. 
"Monk,  the,"   158. 
Montalvo,  Senor  de,  74,  75. 
Montemayor,  George  de,  87. 
Moore,  John,   175,   176. 
Miihlbach,   Miss,   230. 
Musaeus,    108,   128. 
"Myriobiblion,"  47. 
"Mysteries   of   Udolpho,"    157,   219, 

220. 

NASH,  Thomas,  17,  84. 

"Nathan  and  Mitridanes,"  80,  211. 

"Nature  and  Art,"  175. 

'Naulahka,  the,"  268. 

'Newcomes,  the,"  141,  235,  273. 

'New  Heloise,  the,"  128,  197,  220. 

'Nibelungenlied,"  68-77,  QO,  97,  244. 

'Nicholas  Nicklebv,"   161. 

'Nimrod  of  Babylon,"  46. 

'Northanger  Abbey,"  200,  251. 
Novalis,  109. 

"OBSERVATIONS"  of  Abbe  Huet,  13. 
"Old  English  Baron,"  156. 
Opie,  Mrs.,   134. 
"Origine  des  Romans,"  13. 
"Oroonoko,"  91,  92,  100. 

PALMERIN,    73. 
Faltock,  Robert,  229,  258. 
"Pamela,"    12,    79,   94-97,    107,    116- 
120,  152,  191-196,  214-216,  245-248. 
"Paul  and  Virginia,"  175. 
"Pelham,"  139. 
"Pendennis,     141,  205,  235,  260. 


283 


INDEX 


"Pire  Cork*,"  137.  138,  189. 
Ferry.  Bliss.  18,  19,  *<>8. 
"Persian  Letters,"  245. 
"Peter  Wiltons?  358, 
Petrie.   Flinders,  30. 
Arbiter,  59- 
47- 
e  tales,  59- 

Papers/'    140,    142. 
267. 


Scott,  Sir  Walter,  nxoo.,  134-136,  139, 


'83, 


an. 

"Pierre  et  Jean,"  185. 
"Pilgrim's  Progress,"  92.  93.  io°- 
Pilpai,  45- 
Poe,    159,  242,  232. 
Porter,  Jane,   163,  231- 
Prcvost,   12,  93,    136,  190,   191.   '93, 

and  Prejudice,"  178,  179- 
ess  of  Cleves,"  12,  87-89,  97, 
107.   178,   190.  2i3;, 
"Prisoner  of  Zenda,"  230. 
of  Romance,'r  14. 


"Ounm-Hoo  Hall"  231. 
"A"intus   Fixlein,"   259,  260. 

RADCurrx.  Mrs.,  130,  131,  i$6,  i|7, 

174,    198,    219,    220,    240,    251,    268. 

"Ramayana,"  45- 

"Rasselas."   126,  196. 

Reade.  Charles,  144* 

"Recess,  the,"   163. 

Reeve,  Clara,  14,  150. 

Richardson,  12.  13,  14.  »6,  79,  94-9$, 
116-122,  136,  i5»-i55,  170-173,  191- 
197.  204,  214-216,  239,  245-251, 

"Richard  Yea-and-nay,"  232. 

Richter,    108,  259.   260. 

"Robert  Elsmere,     270. 

Robert  the  Devil,  77. 

"Robinson  Crusoe,"  107,  214. 

Rochefoucauld,  La,  88. 

"Roderick  Random,"  131,  267. 

Roland.  68.  73- 

"Romance  of  a  Mummy,"  232. 

"Rosalynde,"  211. 

Rousseau,   109.   137,   I37»   174,   '97, 

sot.  220.  270. 
Rowson.  Mrs.,  198. 
"Roxana."  93. 
Rush,  Friar,  79. 

'  roW,»  ,60. 

Pierre,  B.  de,   175,  229. 
bury,  Professor,  236. 
George,  no,   137,  203. 
»rd   ind   Merton,'1   160. 

,rt  Letter,  the,"  143,  273, 

acJMrar,  Professor,  71. 


162,    163,   181-183,  200,   220, 

230-233,  239,  249-252. 
"Scottish  Chiefs,'*  165.  231. 
"Sekhti,  Story  of  the/'  35-38. 
"Self-Control,"  173,   *74,  198.- 
"Sense    and     Sensibility,"     I33-I35, 

"Septimius"  Felton,"  269. 
"Sctna,  Story  of  Prince,"  38-40. 
Shelley,  Mrs.,  158,   160. 


flSc 


Sherlock  Holmes,"  261. 
"Shortest     Way     with     Dissenters," 

Sidney,  Sir  Philip,  84. 
Siegfried,  69-72. 
"Silas   Marner,"   144. 
"Simple   Story,"   175,   176. 
"Sintram  and  his  Companions,"  197. 
"Sir   Charles  Grandison,"   118,   119, 

Smith,  Rowland,  53,  54. 

Smollett,  1  6,  108,  125,  131,  154,  i55, 

168,    171-173,    177,    196,   208,   216- 

218,  256-259,  267. 
"Song  of  Roland,"  68,  73,  97,  244. 
"Sorrows  of  Werther,"  &&.  Ui6,  2£j_ 
Southey,   74. 

"Spiritual  Quixote,"   160,   168. 
Stendhal,  186. 

.  Sterne,  Laurence,  171,  238. 
Stevenson,    R.    L.,    19,   20,   25,    101, 

no,  115,  164,  187,  208,  242. 
"Stne,  Story  of  Prince,"  38-40. 
Stoddard,  Professor,  20,  160,  164, 

189. 

Strutt,  Mr.,  231. 
"Study   of  Prose  Fiction,"   18. 
"Study  of  the  Novel,"  20. 
Sue,   Eugene,   158,  249. 
Swift,  Dean,  147-149,  151,  257. 

"TALE  of  Two  Cities,"  141,  164,  234. 

"Tales  of  the  Magicians,"  30-35. 

"Technique  of  the  Drama,     5. 

Thackeray,  109,  140-142,  150,  164, 
181,  183-185,  204,  205,  234,  235, 
241-243,  253-255,  259-262,  271,273. 

"Thaddeus  of  Warsaw,"  163. 

"Theagenes  and  Chariclea,"  51  -54- 

"Their  Wedding  Journey,"  145- 

"Three  Musketeers,"  201. 

Tieck,    1  08. 

"To  Have  and  to  Hold,"  259. 

Tolstoi,  109,  1  10,  187,  203,  255,  272. 

"Tom  Jones,"  15,  120-125,  127,  153, 
169-172,  194-196,  215-217,  256,268, 

Traill,  150,  222. 
"Treasure  Island,"  259. 
*  Tristram,   73,   98. 
"Troilus  and  Cresside,"  76. 


284 


INDEX 


Trollope,  124,  206. 

"True    Apparition    of    Mrs.    Veal," 

Tuckerman,   16. 
Turgenev,  109,  187,  226. 

"UNCLE  Tom's  Cabin,"   161. 
"Under  the  Red  Robe,"  268. 
"Undine,"   197. 
"Unfortunate  Traveller,"  84. 
D'Urfe,  74- 
"Utopia/'   245. 

VALDES,   187. 

Valera,   150. 

"Vanity  Fair,"   141,  142,  235. 

"Vathet"  156. 

"Vicar  of  Wakefield,"  126,  127,  258, 

271. 

"Vivian  Grey,"   182. 
Voltaire,    109,   127,  159. 

WALLACE,  Lew,  234. 
Walpole,  Horace,  129,  130,  155,  156, 
162,  219. 


"Wandering  Jew,"  158. 
Ward,  Mrs.  H.,  21,  270. 
Warner,   C.  D.,   187. 
Warren,   Professor,  12,  17,  74. 
"War  with  Mars,"  269. 
"Waverley,"  134. 
Wells,  H.  G.,  269. 
Westcar  papyrus,  29-35. 
Weyman,   Stanley,   232,  268. 
"White  Company,  the,"  268. 
Wieland,  io8»  128,  159,  168. 
"Wieland,"   158. 
Wiglaf,  66,  67. 
"Wilhelm  Meister,"  129,  271. 
Wilkins,  Miss,  227,  228. 
"Wuthering  Heights,"  206,  260. 

"YELLOWPLUSH  Papers,"  142. 
"Yi  King,"  45. 

"ZADIG,"   128. 

"Zaide,"  87. 

"Zeluco,"   175,   176. 

Zola,  no,  in,  115,  187,  209,  270. 


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